


hell calls hell

by seraphy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Forbidden Love, M/M, Other minor characters - Freeform, Politics, lots of worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-10-11 19:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20551292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphy/pseuds/seraphy
Summary: A trained assassin sent to kill an emperor and his son encounters more than he bargained for.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> i came up with the idea for this fic dec 2017, desperately scribbling notes in my tiny ass notebook during class, complete with geographies, maps, histories, economies, characters...
> 
> now, here we are, almost 2 years later! and wow have things changed. this has got to be one of the most ambitious fics i've ever written! i hope you all enjoy it as much as i am writing it; it's still a work in progress, but don't worry, i've got a lot more written than what i have published here ;)

“O white moon, you are lonely, It is the same with me, But we have the world to roam over, Only the lonely are free.” -- Sara Teasdale, from_ Morning Song _in “The Collected Poems Of Sara Teasdale”

The stars, glinting as a million, tiny white eyes would, had just began to peer through the clouds when he reached the boundary separating the two empires. It’s then the gravity of the situation fell upon him, almost as overpowering as the snow-capped mountains he left behind him, casting their shadows over the stone slick with fresh dew. He descended into the mist he spotted atop the mountainside--the earthen citadel that was Morvornaya, hunched forward as he tried to see through it. The subtle oppression of humidity and heat, carried over from the warmer, saltier seas from the south, lingered in the air, the weather ripe with an oncoming spring. 

The path carved into the mountain was steep but smooth with use. In the distance, where the horizon cleaved sky and ocean, he saw the glimmering lights of Salhalas: a warm, subtle orange glow, an amalgam of colors anchored strongly at the edge of the world. 

Beyond that, a plunging drop measuring thousands of feet. 

Behind the diplomat, the closed off and cold arms of the mountain range stood tall, her arms barren and naked with snow. Approximately twenty miles north would lead him along the same widening path to the large and looming gates of what was his home, flanked by tall, impassive guards with armor that mimicked wolves and bears. They would regard him impassively as he bolted out on his mare, alone, sharp face exposed unwisely to the oncoming snowstorm. 

The first person to leave that prison in months.

It  _ was _ his home. Even if they looked at him like an outsider, they knew it too—broad-shouldered, sharp-tongued. His words are clipped when they’re spoken, as if the syllables were stones dropping onto wood.

The man’s hair was darker when he first arrived, that much was true. The queen’s entourage regarded him with keen appraisal when he met them under the stars by the border, their faces shuttered closed like blinds to him. Their hair was cropped, their faces and flesh lined with tattoos. He showed them the wax seal that only could have come from the empress’s personal hand. They had said nothing to him; only turned away to murmur amongst each other, their eyes sharp with suspicion. They regarded him like a leery wolf might regard a hand that only wanted to feed it. 

He was dressed in the earth-toned rags of Salhalas, trembling in what little, finely woven clothing he  _ did _ have, his eyes narrow from a lifelong squint against the bright orange sun. He had forced himself to stop shaking. Instead of rebuking the cold, he let it in--it assailed his senses, wrapping around him like a serpent of ice, and the longer he let it assault him, the more it became a second part of him, as if this emptiness had been in him all along. 

Such was the spirit of this place.

The diplomat’s cheeks were red, but his blood sang with the cold, and though he didn’t look like them, he  _ sounded _ like them and he  _ sat _ like them. Maneuvered conversation with the same metallic pace. Regarded them with the same intense and passive eyes.

(His mother was of native blood to this place, but the rest needed work. He spent months learning to sit straight, to talk the way they talked—that is, to concern himself with matters they were worried about, to steel himself against the relentless torrent of cold winds and cold rain. He was forged from her iron hands as is.) 

When they had relented, his mare fell in behind them, and so began their plunge into the heart of their dismal world, if the heart was a cold, impenetrable citadel, and the blood cooled the closer it got to it. Their world was poor, miserable, and blue, almost as if the vitality had been drained from the body’s extremities by a parasite, circling closer and closer to its pith, to the chambers of its heart. There was little spring in anybody’s step. The colors were muted and dull as opposed to its rivals vibrant, lively hues, mimicking that of a sunrise. Vornaya’s seemed to resemble the hopeless chasm of twilight, sinking further and further into the midnight. 

The women wobbled on high heels with dull jewels. The music had no percussion, no depth, and the food lost its warmth the moment it was brought back from the fire. The literature spoke of death and decay, the handwriting angled and sharp, blunt and angry in its carving into the page. The bards lost their charm and every note was plucked out of tune. 

All in all, there was life but no living. The liveliness had been siphoned from it.

He spent a handful of years there, at least enough for him to attach the word “home” to it, in the way someone attaches that word to any place they sleep, eat, breathe. The lack of sun relieved him from sunburn, though his golden hair and golden freckles persisted notwithstanding the seemingly eternal winters. Long gone were the summers of peeling feet and a peeling face, when he never could seem to tan no matter how long he stayed out in the sun.

The empire had been one dilapidated superstructure, hinting at a wealth and joy that had been long-lost and eternally sought. The palace rose in the center, attached to the side of the highest mountain, its spire tall, gleaming, and silver. Beneath it laid the work of the city: a complex network of veins and arteries sprawled out like one large system, gathered between the mountains, embracing it as four great arms would. It was like staring down at the throat of the world, entrenched in darkness, bereft of moonlight and sunlight. 

It had largely fallen from its grace ever since the war, when Salhalas troops stormed the palace and killed the emperor where he stood. What had been a simple territorial skirmish escalated in a matter of weeks. 

He was just a boy then, playing on the burning sands flanking the outskirts of Salhalas; the larger, unimportant part of the territory that was often ignored, despite their proximity to the source of the empire’s wealth. It was the first loss Salhalas took; the Vornayan army surrounded every extremity and bore down on its limbs like a glaive. 

He was just a boy. He did not understand the politics or the reasoning of it. Did not understand why one empire would invade another, moving upon each other like pieces of a chess game; he just understood that something crucial and important had been taken from him. His mother paced relentlessly, when her face was still young, as they received news of incessant death and bleeding and pillaging. She didn’t run until the soldiers--carved by the harsh winters of Vornaya--stared her down in the whites of her eyes, spared them both, and sent them running. 

They had come for the mines, for blood, for revenge. They looked like walking slaughterhouses, silver armor glinting dangerously in the moonlight… standing over his father’s dead body. One of the miners.

“It was your eyes,” she had always said, “even they realized the severity of what they were about to do.”

He remembers the endless journey and the yellowing sun, the smell of burning houses clinging to his skin. They joined countless refugees fleeing to the center of the empire as Salhalas scrambled to mobilize, to compensate for what was to be an insurmountable loss. The sand hardened into that same priceless, impenetrable stone, the kind that was harvested from the steep cliffsides that stood at the edge of the territory. In a matter of days, home was gone, he was displaced, and the only thing that was the same was the scorching heat of the sun.

The official looked down at his arms. He couldn’t see his skin, but he knew it for how it looked: strong, pale spires, cemented like two columns of iron. The sun rarely shone, as if it, too, realized the curse that ravaged Morvornaya, and closed itself up in a gray stitch of rain and snow, leaving its diseased residents to languish and perish on its own. 

Closing his eyes, he reminded himself of this mission. He was what ravages this empire—an infiltrator, a disease, piercing through them the same way the cold first pierced through him. 

His mother had talked about  _ it,  _ the curse without a name, and he thought it had been a lie. The winter could not be an  _ entity,  _ but the moment he felt her shove herself inside him like a second self, he knew it to be true. He felt that emptiness inside him, hollow as the sound of a funeral bell, carving him from the inside like a raven ceaselessly scoring its talons inside his stomach. 

He kept his eye on the prize. The lively, jocose heart of Salhalas, glinting like a second eye of the sun. The reflection of the water nearly enveloped it, and it became a black shape against the sea. 

Although the cold slowly retreats the more south he went, he still felt her presence in him—immutable, stalwart as an iron gaze, gripping him the way it grips the rest of its citizens. The more he tries to fight it, the more powerful her reign over him became, and he started to shake again. When he relented, she withdrew, vanquished to the back of his mind. 

He didn’t know if she’d disappear in the wake of the summer. Some part of him deep down, wrestling with this hollowness, hoped she would—releasing him, dissolving into mist, perishing against her only enemy. 

The temperature warmed slightly when he descended the final hundred feet of the mountain’s tilt to a clearing, the borders between the two lands distinguishable; not only was it warmer, but there was room for vegetation to sprout, and the salt from the distant sea beckoned him toward it, as if it housed a rich, ancestral treasure. There were even flowers, arching toward the sky at their fullest bloom. Their sweet fragrance drew him back to his childhood, morning glories filling the air like a soundless song. 

A svelte figure mounted a stunning, white mare, legs lithe and long, emanating a deadly, fierce grace. She was an ensign of death in an otherwise breathing world.

The official approached cautiously, guiding his own mare by the reins. She must have heard him coming, but she didn’t turn around, idle at the stars, seemingly content and ignorant of the reason behind their meeting. Her face was shrouded. She sat like royalty: stick straight, calm, arrogant as the clouds part further, casting her in dim starlight. And she certainly dressed like a royal, too. Her small frame was engulfed by a rich, warm cloak lined with fur, the hood pulled carefully over her head, slim fingers glinting with jewelry that surely was more expensive than anything he’s ever held. But by the starlight he managed to pick up the cool tones of her dress: a blue brocade, accented in white, her corset cinched snugly around her waist in an attempt to give her otherwise straight figure a more shapely, feminine form. 

Despite it all, she seemed to dominate it, even overpower it--as if it was too small, too dainty for her own soul, and that notion was further exaggerated by her sharp, unnatural movements. They emulated something inhuman. Wolfish. Her overall disposition raised the hair on the back of his neck, as if her very presence warranted some kind of primordial alarm.

She remained still, poised like a statue, as he descended the decline, pulling his reins to the side to guide his mare to a stop, and she scuffed the ground restlessly with her hooves before relaxing. Notwithstanding the softening winter, his skin still ached from the cold--an ache the southern winds couldn’t soothe. When he moved his fingers, they rebelled, his joints almost tight.

The figure didn’t bother to look at him when his mare settled. “So you’re the contact. To be honest, I expected something... more. I must say that I am  _ underwhelmed _ .” 

The man narrowed his eyes, diplomatically stiff, but brimming with aggravation. His cheeks reddened with it, and his fingers tightened around the reins. She watched… in a predatory way. He had the feeling of a hundred eyes watching him. He scoffed despite himself, “And I was expecting someone else. Not  _ you. _ ”

“Seems we’ve both disappointed each other,” the official added airily. “I’m not one to waste time with badinage, so I will be frank with you. My mother was too busy to make the journey, so I took her place.”

“Busy,” he echoed, almost as if trying to feel out the lie. The heiress was stalwart, eyes piercing--but she was unconquerable. The man continued, “The capital is a three weeks’ journey. Make it quick.” 

“How gracious.” The woman gave him a whetted stare. “I don’t see why she chose you. Foolish, in my opinion. The bat’s gone well out of her mind at this point.” 

The glint of her sword wasn’t lost on the man, and he eyed it while the official sifted through a pouch slung callously across her chest. She tossed a medallion at him, emblazoned with the crest of a powerful grey wolf, and a professional-looking document sealed with wax. She’s more scrupulous handing over a box. Wolves flanked the center, intricately carved into the metalwork, and the moonlight caught the dips and imperfections that promised the work of a human hand.

Suddenly, and almost disdainfully, the man snapped, “She chose me because I’m efficient at what I do.”

She ignored him, “You will need this. I take it you understand the severity of your mission?” 

He didn’t give a reply. Of course he did.

“They’re expecting you, so look the part--wipe that scowl off your face. You’re an envoy carrying the promise of peace, not one of those brutes at the gate.”

It’s hard to beat the brute out of a person when it was all he knew. 

The man put it over his own cloak, his skin still sensitive to the richness of the fabric and the heaviness of such an authoritative piece of metal. Then, he clipped it shut at the neck, his flesh already crawling with sweat--juxtaposed sharply against the stiffness in his joints. He was an imposter and he knew it; a peasant in a chess game, romping chimerically in these clothes like a child. 

She yanked her reins to the side, guiding her mare around, cloak billowing behind her on the back of a great wind. Preparing herself to make the week-long journey up the great mountain which would lead her to the weakening heart of a once-great empire. 

She smiled at Jack, though it was more like a display of teeth.

“Welcome to Salhalas.” 

The capital, as a child, always loomed like a large shadow at night. It was quiet enough to let in the distant hiss of the sea, the streets barren and somnolent. 

His mother had been young, swan-necked, with eyes bright but sharp. Her face was a mask of lamb white, and her cheekbones were so high they cast lengthy shadows down her jaw in the blanching light of the hearth. Her most prominent feature were her fingers, always moving with a wise and aged dexterity, almost as if they had a colder, calculated life of their own. And the rare occasions she smiled, she brandished the gap between her teeth where she stuck her needle and thread. In another life, he could’ve sworn she was born in a fairy tale.

His fingers mimicked her slenderness and length, but only in shape alone. On slow days, she would take his hand, flatten their palms together in some kind of wordless, special kind of idolatry, and compare the length of their fingers. And on days where she had no work at all—punctuated by her coarse dread and her own rumbling stomach—she sewed him blue and white clothes in the northern fashion, her murmurs sweet in his hair:  _ “my miracle.”  _

He never understood why she called him that. His memory of her is his only one; he had no recollection of any other. Perhaps there were faint memories of blurred faces with mundane features and bottomless, soulless eyes, but he hardly remembered them, and when he did, he only remembered them in shapes. It was the kind of childish recollection that lent feelings and colors more than anything else, with snapshots of unmoving landscapes and dismal scenes.

“You were so blue when I found you.” She told this story at least a hundred times. “Gray and blue, in a blanket that matched the snow around you. I might not have seen you if it wasn’t for your hair--it was the most golden hair I had seen. It was like the sun.” She talked in a mechanical rhythm, her cadence matching the delicate weaving of the needle. Poking it through the fabric, across, back, then pulling. He watched the hem unfold. 

“And I remember your eyes. You could barely open them. They were frozen shut. You did not cry when I picked you up…” Her form wavered when she sighed. His own eyes fluttered up questioningly, fleshy hands playing with a stray hem on her dress. “And you hardly fed. I could not leave you there… only the most heartless of souls would leave a newborn in the snow.

“But when you opened your eyes for the first time… Your eyes. They captivated so many.” She glanced at him, her eyes shining with mirth and a scant of what he would call playfulness, if he hadn’t known better. “And perhaps those same eyes are what keep you out of trouble.” 

She had a cold beauty about her when she worked. Her face cinched in concentration—a delicate sculpture of poise, her features stark enough to throw deep shadows across her cheeks. The garments she worked on were smoother than their own clothes, their colors more vibrant, their designs much more ornate. Their own clothes were a meek imitation of what he later (and disdainfully) learned were richer, garish fabrics. 

“I could not deny such a loud sign from fate. A newborn, cast aside in a blizzard in nothing but the blanket he was delivered in, and he was alive? How could this be?”

So, in short, she considered him nothing short of a miracle. She cited that ancestral, divine fortune that governed every empire as to why he seemed to be spared even when he encountered all sorts of clumsy accidents. 

He learned quickly that they were different, and not just because of his odd upbringing. They both peeled and reddened in the sunlight, and his nose was the subject of many schoolyard taunts; it was effectively foreign, large and punctuated at the center of his face. His mother tried to sew him a scarf to hide it—and if he looked closely, he might have sworn she seemed to pity him—but it was too hot to wear it, even though it was woven from the thinnest and sheerest material. Besides, it painted an even larger target on his back. 

Most of his afternoons were spent watching the dizzying movements of her hands, glowing from the amber rays of the sun. Either that, or he constantly felt the fabric she worked on with curious hands; they were richer, finer, and brighter than anything he had seen. She caught him wearing the length of a bride’s train as a scarf, and he had been banished from her sewing table ever since. 

He had never been tall enough to reach the table she worked, but he was more entertained sitting underneath it anyway, where it was much cooler. There, he listened to her sing and hum, threading the needle delicately through stitch after stitch in an effortless show of grace he could never seem to accomplish. They had always lived on empty stomachs; that was just the reality of it. The pay was small, but it was steady, and he was too small to contribute anything aside from fetching fabrics and delivering clothes to their doorstep. 

It was the only time he was allowed to enter the  _ inside  _ of the city; that is, the more richer and luxurious parts, where women grazed in the sun and combed their hair in clean fountainwater with fingers covered in jewels. Their faces were bronze and cinched with mirth, and they laughed without fear; they were vibrant beings, flesh untouched by war, and he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. In their ignorant joy, they seemed no different than newborns. 

Some of them adored him, though; they cooed at his young, babied face, until he skittered away like a roach when one cast sunlight upon it. If he stayed, they sometimes gave him food or money to soften his sharp cheekbones. 

Such a job had lent him selflessness. He earned a meager profit just by delivering, but it all went to his mother so they could eat. 

Besides, he learned to sate his hunger by endless exploration, wandering the few small and condensed streets that were available to him. It was always overcrowded. The sights distracted him from his growling stomach. He came in during sunset, his pale feet blistered and hot from the sun beating down on the stone, and then, and only then, did the gnawing hunger return, sharp and relentless. His stomach turned in on itself with it.

But he explored tirelessly, wanting to know the broader scope of the world, extending far past their little shop at the corner of the avenue. He climbed walls. Found little cracks in the stone that any older child would have struggled to reach, squinting up at the bright blue sky which mimicked the ocean around them as if he were a bird perched at the very tip of the world. 

Sometimes he got high enough to see the ends of the city and the crashing waves beyond it. 

People milled about like little ants, and he couldn’t help but watch them with a dormant curiosity—the innocent kind only children could have. The stone burned beneath his feet, still peeling from the weeks of activity before, but he never seemed to notice after a while, til a week’s worth of rain inevitably blew in and softened up the skin. It burned all over again. He passed many summer months that way, and he remembers it in phases: the skin of his feet soft, then tender and burned, then calloused and numb. The cycle would continue.

She let him explore. It kept him out of her way, unraveling yards and yards of thread in his boredom. 

One day, he did something most daring. He was still young, limber enough to slip around and underneath wooden fences, through little entrances that were forbidden to an average sized man. Exploration had gotten duller for him as the years went on, as he had seen all that he was allowed to see. His appetite hungered for something new. If he tried to go farther, it seemed like there were legions of guards everywhere, blocking off the path to the richer rings of the city.

He turned his view  _ up.  _ The spire of a nearby temple gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Imagine the view from up there. 

A great raven spread its wings and landed at the very top, and in that moment he was determined to chase it.

He could make something very beautiful from a raven feather for his mother. They were rare and exquisite—at least in Salhalas, as they preferred the isolated and colder outposts to the North. 

It pecked at its own wings, ignorant to its childishly plotted demise. Well, not  _ demise,  _ he had said to himself,  _ but hopefully he’ll stay still enough for me to get one feather.  _

Determined now, he looked around at the square, bronze-faced merchants yelling out prices, drowning out his tiny footsteps. They swatted at him when he got too close with disdainful hisses of  _ beggar  _ and  _ thief,  _ but he paid them no mind. Their prizes were not his goal today, much as the smell of a ripe mango tantalized him. 

He snuck into an alleyway. At the end of it laid a locked, decaying gate, but he knew from experience that he could climb it easily if he jumped high enough to catch the foothold that would vault him over. The square’s racket softened into a dull hum, and he landed on the other side with a small thud. He  _ oof _ ed, peered up through narrowed eyes into the sweltering sun, saw the raven, and scrabbled to his feet.

Approaching the temple from behind, he came into the churchyard. The sight of the graves made him uneasy, but straight ahead was the nunnery, their windows old and the churchglass dull, the mosaics long faded. No one was in there. They were all hosting the daily ritual, praying for good fortune and wealth and longer summer days, as that’s when everyone was at their most joyful and charitable. 

He put a leg on a sill and hoisted himself up. Paused, the shutters rattling in the dim, shaded silence. The window was tall, but he used the shutters as leverage, scrabbling up to the top of it. He looked down, and nausea almost pitched him forward. It was already a long jump. 

The roof was only another window-space above. He conquered it in the same manner he conquered the first, his body straining with the effort of the reach. He hung from it precariously, shaking, but with a last push, he managed to find a foothold on the sill, leaning on it with his knee. 

His heart raced, climbing with relative ease onto the roof. Squinting for the raven again. It cocked its head at him, mocking him.  _ I’m coming for you! _

The raven had wings. He didn’t. It wasn’t very fair.

There were small footholds that led to the belltower, almost as if they were placed there for  _ him,  _ but most likely for whoever was assigned to cleaning and tending to the bells that sounded the hour. 

Each step took him precariously  _ higher,  _ and though it was terrifying, a thrill electrified him. They won’t be calling him names anymore, not when they saw him on top of the temple’s spire, looking down on all of them. No, he’d finally gain their reverence. 

He emerged out of the shadow of the temple and into the blinding sunlight. He climbed over the balustrade with a limber ease that could only be attributed to a child. The wind buffeted him so strongly it almost moved against him like a body would, trying to force him down, force him to fail. 

The raven just stared, beady eyes into his blue ones. 

_ Stay right there. _

He inched up the spire. Bit by bit, his arms shaking with the effort. It was like climbing up one giant, steep,  _ smooth _ rope. There were no footholds to guide him, just pure strength, something he unfortunately did not have in spades. He bit his lip. Just a few more arms away. 

The raven seemed none the wiser. Well, it looked him in the eye, but even  _ it  _ seemed to doubt whether he could actually achieve the goal he set out to accomplish, and he was going to prove it—and everyone else—wrong.

The wind was strong, as if it, too, had doubts. Another inch. The gap, slowly closing in between them. 

Another. And another. His hands becoming slippery with sweat, hair windblown and salt spraying into his eyes. He reached up, straining, extending his arm as far as he could to the tip of its wing, a feather dangling precariously, as if it were  _ waiting _ for him, as if fate had planned this delicate encounter all along—

And someone screamed, his fingertips brushed the edge, and the raven screeched and flew away. 

His arm darted to wrap around the spire again, bear hugging it. He cursed, his stomach lurching when he looked down. The glare of the sun was powerful, though through it, he saw a cluster of loosely organized shapes. A woman pointed to him, her mouth agape, and as if on cue, hundreds of eyes swiveled up to look at him.

A child, clinging to the top of the spire. Bear hugging it. A normal one might have looked afraid, and he  _ was,  _ but not because he might fall, but… 

His mother would murder him. He kept his fists locked tight.

But the  _ view.  _

The city’s bridges extended out miles on either side, anchored firmly onto the ocean floor whose depth rivaled only a few hundred feet. He saw the windows, wide and round and touching the floor; windows that must have been full of  _ people;  _ people from other  _ empires _ , envoys traveling in and out. The balustrades were lined with the summer’s most colorful flowers: dahlias, orchids, poinsettias. Beneath the bridges extending across the ocean, he saw the waves crashing against its supports. He couldn’t hear it, but it was so visceral in that moment he might as well have  _ been  _ there, letting the cool salt spray his face.

Perhaps even the emperor and empress themselves were walking it this very moment, their golden garments billowed out behind them. Fabrics he would never wear, only  _ see  _ and envy. In that moment, he realized the world was much more than his mother’s little shop. 

Yes, he had traveled it once. The view exhumed those memories, long lost relics of what seemed like an ancient time. 

To the north, a gray mountain range. The land leading up to it was rich, yellow, and wavering in the sunlight’s heat. That had once been his mother’s home. 

And by the looks of him, his own, too. 

For a few glorious minutes, he was the raven, climbing up to the flat top to stare at everything with childlike wonder. The chatter and cries of the square were lost and carried away by the wind, still pushing against him, but he welcomed it, swaying with it. The salt no longer stung his eyes, and his feet enjoyed the reprieve from the blistering stone on the streets. 

He opened his fist, just a little. Inside was the feather. He smiled. What a beautiful plume it would make on her hat. The cost of such a thing easily rivalled that of ten dinners.

For once, she could feel like royalty. 

He looked down again, elated with his prize. 

A man, who looked like nothing more than an armored speck, called out to him in a powerful, booming voice. He had the signature long, orange plume of the city guard trailing from his helmet. “Child! Are you alright? Can you get down?” 

He tilted his sunburned face at him.

Then he shrugged. 

A small gathering of the same armored men clustered in the shadow of the temple. They seemed to talk to one another, then a different one yelled, “We’ll get you down. Just stay there.” 

He wore a face of childish disdain. Here they were, talking to him like a baby, but none of these knights had ever climbed to the top of a temple before! He could get down. 

He finally spoke, voice small in the wind, “Am I in trouble?”

They didn’t hear. He yelled louder, the voice coming from inside his chest. 

They seemed to laugh. He couldn’t tell. 

He waited up there for a long while, tracking the sun’s trek across the sky. His head began to hurt and he became extraordinarily thirsty. His spine felt like it was on fire, but he didn’t let go of the feather. One of the armored men spoke with the overseer of the temple, and he let him inside. He heard his metallic steps ringing fiercely through the belltower, and his own body quivered with something between trepidation and anticipation. The wind tried to pry his hands from the spire again.

He looked into the eyes of the man whose head poked out from the side of the belltower. Again, “Am I in trouble?”

The knight’s eyes were bright. “Nonsense,” and when he spoke, his voice bellowed in such a manner that was not  _ terrifying,  _ but joyful and adventurous, and though he had the stature of a grown man, the fire in him rivalled that of a boy’s.

So, instantly, he felt safe in the presence of his gaze, and his other arm tightened around the metal pole while his free hand extended to meet the metal-clad one of the knight’s. It was a large reach, and he was leaning perilously to the side to close the gap; if the wind blew again, he might be carried away with it. 

He wasn’t. The knight pulled him down with relative ease, like he was a ragdoll. Now that he was turned away from the harsh glare of the sun, he was able to look into his eyes. They were dazzlingly blue, mirroring the ocean’s and the sky’s--similar to his. 

“I have to ask… what thing would lure a child to the top of a temple?”

Jack grinned. “I wanted to see what it looked like from the top.”

He was grateful for the shade. He tucked the raven feather carefully into his pocket, away from the boisterous man’s curious eyes, and when they were at the bottom of the temple--safely on the ground--he wriggled out of his arms, slipping through his vambraces and landing on the ground like a confused chick who had tumbled from the nest. His hands felt his cheeks. They were an angry red, already beginning to tighten and blister with his sunburn. 

His mother, naturally, wasn’t so pleased. Her thin form carved its way through the merchant square, shouldering through the crowd while she clutched her rags to keep herself from tripping over them. Her face was grayer, strands of white clinging to her temples, and her eyes seemed to set deeper in her face as their time went on. Now, her statue-like poise was broken, fierceness carved into the folding marble of her face. “ _ What would compel you to do such a thing _ ?”

When she was angry, she always defaulted to her native language. It was embarrassing, not just to be chastised right in front of the great knight who had seemed impressed with his venture, but to be chastised in a language that transformed everyone’s curious and surprised faces to ones of confusion. Whatever ambition he had drained from him, and only its shadow remained, but even that cowered when confronted with the face of her wrath. He answered, “I saw---”

She grabbed his hand. Her bony fingers dug into his own fleshy ones, knuckles white. “I stop watching you for just a  _ few minutes-- _ ”

He remembered weaving through the merchant’s square, people splitting off like birds once the debacle was over. Their murmurs coated the thick air, overpowering the potent, herbal scent of morning glories, and word had spread around the most southern ring of the capital within hours: the story of the boy who climbed to the top of the temple.

So, naturally, that became his new sobriquet; he was no longer a boy with a beak-like nose but a boy who conquered the steep, insurmountable climb of the temple.  _ For the view.  _   
He had never thought of himself as a thrill-seeker. He just wanted to see what had been denied to him. 

She applied a cool balm to his peeling face and angry feet. “Are you going to tell me why you did what you did?”

He knew better than to answer it with words, even if it was a question. He showed her the feather. Suddenly her face flashed with something that his younger self was never able to explain. In retrospect, he understood it to be disappointment, and even a sense of failure. Not that he disobeyed, but that he knew they were poor enough to never be able to gain something like what he held through monetary means. 

His adventures stopped after that. For some inexplicable reason, the joy had been sapped from it, and his memories of it became nothing more than hollow shells. He tried to chase the mirth that came with childish curiosity, the desire to see and understand all the things… but the magic was lost, if it could be called that, and while children his age threw stones off the edge of the city and made bets on how long until it hit the water, he stayed inside. Devoted his hours to staying by her side and collecting spare money however he could.

She had not killed it; it wasn’t that. It rather seemed to die on its own, like a slow suicide. That little moment had been the apex of anything and everything he would ever accomplish, and as a result everything characterized around it was pointless. The youth was siphoned from him, and it was like he was being moulded in the likeness of the woman who raised him. 

His eyes sharpened, and hers grew old and frail. She had trouble seeing, but their income did not warrant any kind of aid for her eyes, so he helped where he could. He filled in seams where she couldn’t, even though his hands lacked her coordination and grace; everything he did was an echo of it, like some mediocre epigone of her mastery. Her job was not for him, and they both knew that, but their livelihood depended on it. The steady stream of clients she relied on dwindled and dried, and in the floors of her empty shop, her hands wrung, loathing their stagnancy and their own stillness, longing for work. And for the first time in a few years, her gaze was softer and weaker when she looked upon him; her doll-like face began to crease with lines of worry. 

One day, she grew sick. In her typical fashion, she bludgeoned through it; her hands never ceased, and they became more frenzied the sicker she got. He attributed it to her fragile age, but what was a simple, quick cold seemingly morphed into a beast all on its own overnight. It attacked her breathing, her coordination, and even her consciousness. In the absence of her light, he was entrenched in the lack of it.

Autumn froze over into blighted winter. Even nature seemed to rebel, the sky opening up to a cloudless, freezing blue when it wasn’t raining. She shivered night and day while the shutters were open and the breeze flitted in carelessly, ignorant to her plight. All he remembers from that time were the rattles of her breath, her gray face, and her eyes perilously sewn shut. It was like whatever curse had fallen on him as an infant spread to her, and now it was terrorizing her. 

The deep amber of Salhalas sunsets and the crashing of the waves. Occasionally, the violence of a crowd gone sour, lasting long into the night until it was felled, blade by blade. 

She clung onto her own strength as long as she could, but the disease picked away at it. When her eyes turned on him, hazy with warmth and familiarity, she said, “Take me back home.” 

_ Home.  _ He had never seen it. It was impossible to cross the barren terrain of Salhalas on his own as it were, but she would hardly even endure the first week. The heat would kill her. It was her last wish, and such a thing was deeply ingrained into her culture, though he hardly knew anything about it. All he knew that refusing to follow through with it might damn her to an eternity of similar misery.

“Let me take you to see someone first,” he pleaded. 

It was their last option. Her strength alone wouldn’t outwit whatever it was that was terrorizing her. She didn’t say anything; she had slipped back into unconsciousness, and so he was alone again, deliberating on the side of her bed. 

They had made the journey once, years ago, and from what he remembered, it was a trail full of misery, hunger, heat, and agony. In his mind, he recalled the great murals and stories he had captured glimpses of as a boy, detailing the withering and dying Vornayan soldiers who burned away in the heat. 

The days after that stretched perilously into infinity, as he wandered the streets in search of odd jobs that could lend them enough for a meal. In the distance, he always heard the faint sonatas of carols and joyous, young voices, ignorant to the suffering that imbued his world and stole the color from it. He looked at the spire that he had once conquered as a child, and wondered where such energy and magic had come from, and how he could get it back again. 

For a brief time, he tried to scrounge together supplies that would help them endure their journey back to Vornaya, and he seriously considered trekking out into the unknown himself with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the strings of language he could barely stitch together. 

When that didn’t work, he traveled to and from the library, endless and determined in his quest for books that talked about Vornaya; its legends, its stories, its people, and the effort was more like picking away at one of its great mountains and hauling it across Salhalas’ endless desert, stone by stone. He could not reimagine cities and people he had never seen, only read to her distant eyes in fragmented sentences. 

He could speak the language, but he struggled to read it.

Sitting on her bed, he opened up to her a world that no longer existed (for even he had grasped the state of despair the empire had fallen into.) He relayed to her the ancient myths of their dynasty digging their fortune out of a large lake hidden inside a mountain. Theirs was a charm--a shard of ice impervious to the weather around it, clasped inside a necklet forged from the special minerals found in their mines. 

That place had become the centerpiece of its palace, where, frozen over in the depths of winter, they danced, alight with a divine gift, on the heart of their home. Men and women trailed about in long fur capes characteristic to the Duma. 

It was a crystallized and carefully curated world, but even his imagination could only extend so far when he had only seen the bright orange flatland of Salhalas. 

His mother had never seen the palace, so he had a little more freedom; he talked, after hours of reading at the library, of ice sculptures precariously dangling from the ceiling, glimmering domes lined in snow and silver, and emperors and empresses grazing in blue gatherings of white fur lined with sapphires. He described bedizened balustrades, ice so crystal and clear one could trace their reflection in it. She occasionally smiled in her sleep, and it led him to believe she might have been listening and entertaining a childish arbiter of an empire made of dreams. 

The apothecary visited once a week, as that’s all their meager living could allow. She exhausted every remedy and cure she could think of, and the more he watched her coat his mother’s lips in herbs and balms, the more hopeless he felt.

It was the eve of his ninth birthday when she passed, and it wasn’t grandiose or as extravagant (if death could ever be that way) as he imagined it would have been. Where his mind was full of stories of soldiers dying gallantly on rocks, speared on swords, or nobly sacrificed to the war, she slipped away silently, elusive as smoke. There was no blood, no battle, no war cry. Just a room full of silence, and the weighted realization that he was alone. 

_ Black raven, why do you circle over me?  _ she used to sing,  _ I am not your prey.  _

In Salhalas, after one’s passing, they are sunk into the ocean. So that is what he did, as the Vornayan rituals--buried far into the earth, beneath mounds of snow, where nothing may disturb the peace of the dead--wasn’t feasible. He watched her sink away, enshrouded in white cloth, and it felt a lot like saying goodbye to a loved one before a voyage, whose face fades with every passing moment, carried off by the sea, until they finally vanish, swallowed by the horizon. He kept the feather, carefully preserved, in his hand. 

Some last wishes were simply impossible.

The roads were silent for days, just as they always were; desolate, abandoned, and the kids continued to laugh about his nose. He yelled at them to leave him alone, to go drown at the bottom of the seawater, and he hit their glass bones with stones. They scattered, a flock of timid birds, cawing that it had been a joke. A miserable, miserable joke for the temple-climber.

The hollowness swelled like some kind of void. How cruel the world had been then; it persisted despite his own agony, left him tied to that night and the memory of her death, so elusive and so cold. 

The silence was suffocating when all he could think about was how he wanted to scream. He twisted in the prison of it, as if his skin felt too small, too tight over this new voiceless organ that had sprouted overnight. 

Orphaned for what felt like the thousandth time, he grew bitter with the flags clapping in the wind, emblazoned with a sunrise. And he bowed his head and scurried along when he heard the heavy footsteps of the emperor’s men, in terror of their swords, glinting like the fang of some lazy viper, yawning with the impulse to strike. They doubled in number almost everyday. He watched from the shadows, hungry, pushed by the warm bodies. 

That’s when his salvation came. 

Twenty years later, Jack stood at the edge of the capital on top of one of Salhalas’ famous cliffsides. There, the gray began to merge seamlessly with life, as if the further he traveled South, the more dreams and life he would find. Twelve years after the salvation came and he was shaped and sculpted by the arbiter of his fate…

A six year old girl with nothing but a message in her hand. To think, reading it led him here. 

Yes,  _ fate _ . He didn’t believe in it, and the word comes with a bitter tang.

The heiress left him with a small cluster of guards, as well as two other seasoned diplomats who, he was certain, don’t know the true nature of his being here. Just that he’s the son of some distant nobleman who died long ago in the war, and he was serving in his place as a repayment of debt.

Something like that. 

One of them was a plenipotentiary, tasked with the full political brunt of the mission, and acting in the empress’ place. His name was Petras--he remembered that much. His flesh creased around his white mouth when he frowned, and whose jowl was animated when he spoke. He was tall and thin, so much so he flippantly worried that a gust from the coast would carry him straight off his horse. His face was porcelain; that is, bereft of any scarring or ink that might hint at any kind of challenges or tribulations. The smooth skin—warped only by age—suggested a mirthful, jubilant adulthood, one free of trial and agony. 

The other was a woman. Her name was Satya. Straight hair accompanied an equally straight face, and her cheekbones were high and sharp beneath dark skin that reflected the oncoming sunset’s radiance almost dazzlingly. Her eyes were deep-set and brown, narrowed in that cynical Vornayan way that suggested an almost persistent disdain for the world. Satya rarely spoke, rarely laughed, unless it was at his own misfortune. But if one looked close enough, they could see the parenthesis embedded into the sides of her mouth, suggesting mirth once upon a time. If Jack and Satya stood next to each other, their behavior was probably remarkably similar, almost like a mirrored image of one another.

It made sense. She was the one who trained him. 

The guards, though, left him nauseated. They reminded him of the silver slaughterhouses that had raided his home so many years ago, perched on their horses like columns of impenetrable stone. Jack preferred to ignore them. 

Flanking them were Salhalan guards, who knew this territory like the back of their hand. Their laughter was boisterous, forms loose but strong, drunk and limber with the promise of peace. He remembered that blue-eyed knight with a pang, delivering him from what might have been certain death. 

He never forgot that kindness. Where was he now?

The knights—part of the emperor’s legion, most likely, if their heavily decorated armor was anything to go by—accompanied them for the entire journey. They’re so close he could make out the roaring of the sea crashing against the supports of the bridge that extended out on either side, and even smell the salt alongside the rich spices that lingered from dinner. The sun was beginning to set, the promise of dusk cooling the air even though the humidity clung to his skin. Dusk was when they would finish their journey; for Salhalas, dusk is when festivities or important ceremonies take place. It  _ was _ their crest, after all. 

And he’s already getting  _ sunburn.  _

Their journey had led them through the breadth of the city--that is, its condensed, complicated webbing of veins, roads, and houses that reached high into the sky. It was both  _ different  _ and  _ familiar,  _ passing through the streets he had once intimately explored, and staring over the crowd of mulling faces, knowing he had once been among them. 

The women brushed their full hair in fountains, and their mirth colored the air as it always had, but he found no reason to envy their jewels. It was as if the entire place was carefully preserved, and movement was paused in his absence; then, when he returned... everything once paused was resumed, and the sounds continued as they always did.

He returned as a guest in garments he once dreamed of wearing. This time, he loomed  _ over  _ them, the way a statue would, on a horse pristine as snow. He wasn’t sure if it was his horse or his clothes that drew their attention; as much as he wanted to shed his thick, fur-lined cape, it was a stubborn tradition  _ not  _ to, as if Vornayans carried reminders of their home wherever they went. 

The cold in him shuddered, relentless against heat. 

Salhalans had never seen anything like it; their clothes were sheer, so as to allow exposure to the sun as much as possible. Vornayans, by contrast, hid from it, and protected their flesh from the elements that could harden or destroy it. 

But for Jack, it meant hiding the history written on his flesh. 

He couldn’t tell if they were happy to see them or not.

A kind nobleman received and housed them overnight. He had full cheeks, and hair that fell about his temples in messy curls, armed with a smile that was so perfect it seemed mechanical and unnerving. Despite residual tensions, the Vornayans were more than happy to drink and eat as they pleased, tasting seafoods they had never heard of and spices that made their tongues hot and swollen. It had only taken a few hours to break their stone-cold facade. 

He, however, sat quietly in the great hall, refused drinks (three times, despite knowing it might have been rude,) and forced down food that made his stomach turn. Everything was tainted with a fine layer of deceit, thinly veiled with a poison only he could seem to taste. It left everything rancid, acerbic, like someone sprinkled arsenic on his plate. 

Everyone else asked for seconds and thirds. He was, as always, an observer, alienated from this colorful narrative, full of conversations about adventures, blood, and beautiful women. 

He knew the motive behind it. A feast like that was indicative of wealth and fortune, two things Salhalas had in spades. It all felt spurious; the songs, the dances, the pinched smiles. Men and women served them in slips of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. 

Salhalas would never truly apologize for what they had done. 

But he had no sympathy for Vornaya, either. And it wasn’t his job to worry about it. Execute, get paid, eat another day. 

He sat among both these worlds, acutely aware of belonging to neither and of being rebuked by both. His own presence felt invasive. While they laughed and drank all night, he retired early. His dreams sagged with the weight of his own crime, so much so that he paced the balcony until the moon was low in the sky. Only then did he sleep, but it was out of sheer exhaustion from the heat and the journey than anything else.

If the Vornayans are suffering from a night of drinking, they don’t show it. Rather, they were silent and firm again, as if the sun had come and furtively returned them to stone. Nobody talked during the half-mile trek across the bridge; they’re occupied by the awesome sight of the sea, sprawled underneath it. 

“ _ What’s the matter, Jack? _ ” He recognized the clipped, fierce language of the Vornayans. It always sounded like barking to him. “You barely ate last night, and you refused every drink.” 

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Hmm.” 

“Heat exhaustion. I’m not used to it.”

Judging by the way the other man’s face was reddening, he wasn’t used to it either. “You’re getting sunburn, boy.” And then he laughed, as if he wasn’t either. “But the entire journey you hardly seem to have broken a sweat.”

The Salhalans glanced at them warily. They thought they were fighting, with the way Petras was speaking to him--it was barked and rough, and his laughter hardly put them at ease. Only when he gestured to his face did they relax… somewhat. He met their eyes and replied, calm and cool, the way silk might glide over iron, “Because I put my energy to more  _ practical  _ things.”

Petras chuffed, and, gripping the reins in his hand, turned away from him. Only when the guards looked away did he smirk, watching Petras’ back, knowing the man was probably twice as red. Lucky for him, the Salhalans didn’t understand. 

Satya smirked.

He didn’t know what to expect, and his stomach flipped with something he hasn’t felt in years…  _ fear.  _ Apprehension. The palace was heavily guarded, naturally, though the capital’s place in the center of the ocean lent them immunity to practically any attack. The only way to access the citadel was the bridge--extending from either side like two long arms, whose foundations plunged far into the ocean below--and invaders would be seen from miles away, if they weren’t stalled in the maze that was the city. Come from the water, and the rapids would carry you over the edge, plunging thousands of feet into the foamy depths below. 

If you and your vessel weren’t cut up by the jagged, sharp rocks littering the edges  _ first _ , of course.

Over twenty years ago, from the landlocked city, he gazed upon this exact same bridge and wondered what lay upon it. Now he knew. 

The nearer they come to the palace, the more luxurious it became; flowers of all kinds lined the railings, a hundred different shades of yellow, orange, and red, as if carefully curated for this exact moment. It was enough to distract from the primordial fear that one may topple and fall off the edge and into the rapids below. 

But what wasn’t as astonishing as the railings bedizened in jewels and flowers was the gate, so extraordinary and awesome in its size it merely hinted at what lies behind it. 

Up close, he noticed the patterns etched into the stone: seraphs, suns, horned beings, lions’ maws, golden eagle talons. Men and women with spears, shields, and shining armor. In the middle, at the very top, was a man with fine, striking features, holding a sword in his hands. He was the centerpiece of the mural.  _ Their history. _

It was said their fortune is backed by the sun, and as such, they were scions of it. 

The roar of the water was deafening, and for the first time he was grateful for the protection his cloak offered. It shielded him from the spray that flitted up from the sea. The sun was just peaking above the horizon, bathing the superstructure in a beautiful, luxurious glow. He turned away from the horizon to avoid being blinded by it. His eyes were drawn up the gate, then back down again, like following the path of the sun itself. 

The gate led to a curved path ahead, flanked with statues; some were of men, valiant and august, brandishing swords, scepters, and shields; others were women, their features powerful, as if  _ their  _ faces were buried in the stone, and the sculptor had simply unearthed them. They were poised in the middle of action, crying out to an invisible enemy. 

But the most striking feature about all of these… was that they are all made of glass. 

The sun caught their curves beautifully; white light turned prismatic, scattered rainbows littering the ground beneath their feet. The colors paved the journey forward, and he squeezes his eyes shut in awe of it. The light, although seemingly arbitrary, was cultivated carefully by engineers… he knew that from studying the palace. 

Yes, he read about it… never had it occurred to it him that it’s  _ true.  _

The palace was full of surprises. Ceilings, carved from its famous stone, arched high above his head; balustrades decked in those same vibrant flowers that sweetened the air like honey; more statues that wanted to jump out and seize him with their glass hands. Wide windows made of painted glass let in the sunlight, deliberately placed at both the western and eastern wing, and as such, bathed them in an august glow during the sunrise and sunset. 

Naturally, these rooms were where ceremonies took place. Coronations, royal weddings… funerals.

Even his fellow kinsmen were speechless, and their eyes betrayed their awe, even if they keep their surprise tightly planted between their mouths.

For them, it wasn’t the wealth that astonishes them… it was the  _ beauty  _ of it all; the prospect of fortune and favor, something their empire was deprived of, like a body was drained of its blood. 

The wealth royals possessed was never lost on him, even as a child. And even now, having seen the vibrant ice sculptures and structures that hung from the ceilings of Vornaya, its glistening, frozen lake where a garden ought to be… he was still rendered breathless by it all. Something as simple as a candelabra made of gold made him want to do a double take.

He grew up in this wealth. He needed to remember that. He couldn’t go fawning over every goblet and plate like a newborn… 

But what kind of life could he have lived if he had gotten his hands on just  _ one  _ of these things?

Perhaps he could have afforded treatment for his mother. He could have afforded treatment for  _ every ailing person in the city.  _

It’s one large, connected structure; the main “atrium” (that is, the structure that held the bed chambers, the great hall, and the library) was joined by arms extending from the same platforms that held the statues. Its orange rounded domes don’t  _ reflect  _ the sun but  _ brighten it,  _ as if the very place is part of the land itself, and jutted up from the sea sometime ago. 

From the entrance, there was a singular path that curved around the width of the palace--the one they followed--and at its center, the luxurious gardens from which those same flowers must have been plucked. And, the more one traveled it, the more of Salhalas’ story was revealed to them; it was like walking through a breathing, living story, whose characters, setting, and conflict unfolded with every step. Murals, statues, and painted glass revealed, chapter by chapter, the grandiose and unraveling story of how this empire had come to be. 

It was, for all intents and purposes, a living book, whose pages turned of their own volition. 

They were to be received in the great hall, so Jack couldn’t spend time fawning over the palace for long. It dwarfed that of the one they ate in last night. 

The great hall in Vornaya was similar in structure and shape, but Salhalas’ possessed one  _ very  _ distinct trademark: it was anchored closer to the eastern wing, and one great window spanned the length of the wall facing the horizon. As such, the orange sunset poured over every detail, like a golden river set free, unbidden; every plate, goblet, and chair glowed with it. It was like gazing over a crystal lake, if that lake were made of gold. 

If there could be a physical manifestation of  _ peace,  _ this would be it.

Even he can’t deny its beauty. 

His gaze scanned over the table, following it up the center, where the throne stood. 

The beauty suddenly fell apart, blasted away into splinters. It shattered into a million pieces, that abruptly, that easily, like a glazier slamming his fist into a window. There laid that thin, thin layer of deceit, but that alone was enough to darken and distort it, until the beauty felt  _ too  _ fabricated.  _ Too  _ beautiful, in a harsh and terrifying way, in the same manner the sun blinded one if they look at it for too long. 

Because this beauty was not just  _ beauty.  _ It’s a display of terror, strength, and superiority. 

Jack pinched his animosity between his lips and sat down. The plenipotentiary, naturally, sat closest to the head of the table, near the emperor’s inner circle of advisors. To the emperor’s right (or rather, the east,) the heir would sit, representing the dawning of a new era. 

Or, one could think of the heir as the centerpiece, and the emperor on his west side, emblematic of fading age. Time running out, a new sunrise usurping his own. 

Something told him that isn’t how he’s supposed to think of it.

The heir… he had yet to decide what to do with him. Supposedly, Vornaya had a plant inside the emperor’s council, and he had worked tirelessly for years to gain their favor. So when the dynasty fell, and the council was flung into chaos over who the next appointed emperor would be, there could only be one choice.

The heir had to go too. 

The sun was halfway up the horizon when his attention was arrested by the silence that fell over the entire hall. His breath hitched. 

Finally, it was time to face Vornaya’s conqueror. 

He was tall. Taller than he expected.

Rather than the robes fitting around him, he dwarfed them, and despite his age, his posture  _ bled  _ enormous power. Not the empirical, measurable kind, the kind measured in territories and money; no, this was much more  _ sinister _ , as if one of the glass statues had been roused by the sun and come to address them all. He was a predator wrapped up in flesh, flesh too  _ tight  _ to contain such power. 

The robes are subject to  _ his  _ whim, his shoulders jutting through the golden fabric like the jagged rocks that protruded from the edge of the ocean. They touched the ground, but not in the way Vornayan garments do; not in the heavy,  _ draping  _ way, as if their clothing tried to bring them closer to earth. His hair was cropped short, and his gaze is intense; his brown skin was littered with scars, the most prominent one crossing over his left eye. He wore the skin of a conqueror, and he wore it well.

But there was something about the way he  _ walked.  _ The way his gaze fell over them, like they were a court of ghosts at the table, his eyes slipping between each and every one like water through rocks… as if he couldn’t decide who he wanted to look at, or as if he was measuring them like a designer would measure a carpet or curtain for his project...

His own eyes widened, just a fraction.

The emperor was  _ blind.  _

The son was different. He was slightly leaner, elegant, like one of those glass statues transformed into liquid gold. He held onto his arm for a distance until his father reached the throne. He didn’t sit. He could make out his face from here: striking, sharp features, the sun bleeding orange over his face in such a way he looked radiant, like a moving painting. That golden river touched him and brought him to life, throwing an amalgam of shadow and light against his features. His hair was cut similarly to that of the emperor’s, short and shaved at the neck, the only difference being that it draped in curls over his temples. 

To put it simply, he was an echo of his father, as if a portraitist softened the hard edges of the emperor to make him look benevolent. 

Yet that softness didn’t take away from fierceness. The two complimented each other, even if his beauty was breathtaking. 

His companions fell into a respectful silence. He knew what happened next; they’ll pay their respects, beginning with the heir, then the members of the inner council, and then his companions, and finally, himself (being the youngest, per Vornayan tradition _ .)  _ His eyes followed the heir--they were stuck on him, like a light he couldn’t look away from--as he kissed his father’s hands, put his knuckles to his temple, and then sat down to receive the same respects. It was a neat procession. Lips to bedizened, scarred hands, knees to the carpet. In some way, it reminded him of a funeral: that silent, that systematic.

Finally, his turn. 

Their eyes landed on him and it turned his skin into liquid fire, heart leaping into his throat--a sudden exodus of fear and apprehension, manifesting inside of him and rising like bile. He didn’t dare look behind him to see if anyone caught onto this, such a glaring gap in their intelligence. The instinct to turn and run nearly paralyzed him. 

His eyes were at his hip. It was believed that the Reyes dynasty were chosen by a divine hand--hence their ancestor’s accidental discovery of a sword embedded in the desert. When they took it out, they discovered a water source underneath that led them to the ocean. 

As such, their fortune and divine favor depended on it. The sword was a heavy thing, weighing twice that of an average sabre, made of the same precious, limited material that lined some of the palace’s defenses. 

A sword made of stone. It was sharper than any blade, and impenetrable as iron. It singed flesh when it cut through it, cauterized it instantly. 

At least, that’s what the books always said. 

He saw the scabbard of it, long and powerful, curving menacingly at the end of the blade. 

Still, he feigned ignorance about his blindness, and that made his fierceness easier, to bow before a murderer when he cannot see him. To feign  _ deference. _ There must not be a shard of hesitance, and so his movements were calculated, fluid in such a way that might attest to the fact that this had been scripted and rehearsed a thousand times. He’s learned to bite back the bile.

He kissed his hands. They were sickeningly cold somehow. It was like kissing a corpse.

It was forbidden to look them in the eyes when addressing them. He knew that. It was one of the first things they drilled into his head. He could feel the heir’s eyes on the back of his head-- _ Gabriel _ , that name suddenly occurred to him--when the heir extended his hand, palm down. He kissed his bare hands, resolutely silent. Gabriel was free to cast judgment upon him, and the entire idea of that made his spine shiver, ice curling around it. His hand was warmer, sliding into his own with ease.

And, against all his reason, his own eyes rose up to meet his. 

It was the smallest of movements, his head canting up just slightly. Gabriel’s eyebrows jumped, surprised at such a bold, flagrant violation of protocol. For a split second, the sun casted his eyes in honeyed flame.

Embarrassed, he bowed his head again and rose, bowed once more, and returned to his seat. 

How could he do something like that? How could he abandon everything he had been taught, that quickly, in a flash of instinct?

He was stiff in his seat through the emperor’s opening remarks. Somehow, only the heir had witnessed his violation, and he felt his offense across the room like a thousand eyes, piercing him all the way through. No doubt the emperor would be told of that, and what happens to a guest when they so blatantly violate established protocol… 

He could only guess. 

Only once did he turn to look at him, and it was merely a simple gesture of his eyes--flicking to the side, away from the emperor’s broad shoulders and booming voice--and they discover him still  _ staring.  _ Everyone else’s eyes were turned toward the emperor; and he didn’t blame them, for he dominated the space, moving about it like it’s something that he, too, needed to conquer. 

“It is with great pleasure I welcome our most esteemed Morvornayan guests.”  
Jack tensed. To anyone else, it’s a simple error; one that’s culturally ignorant, but a forgivable one nonetheless. One removed the _Mor- _because it’s the prefix that means _cursed. _Cursed mountain. 

“I only hope that we can move forward from our … violent history, and forge an era anew. I only have Salhalas’ best interests at heart.” 

Jack pinched his resentment between his lips again. Listening to him speak was like listening to cutlery on porcelain. It made his muscles clench with white fury. 

“A new generation offers new promise, does it not? Fresher, younger minds, to forgive and repent for bloodshed. In Salhalas, our younger citizens are just as venerated and respected as our older ones.”

Somehow the emperor knew where he sits, because his eyes flashed toward him. He took it as a cue to stand, and he bowed his head toward his direction in the pause between his words. Gabriel stood as well, all elegant robes and draping, grand fabric, and his heart clenched in something that he’s quickly learned to recognize as fear.

“After all, who will take care of us when we’re old?” 

Light laughter filled the air from the inner council. He forced himself to exhale in a hollow imitation of a laugh, empty and gilded like Vornayans do, like the shrill voice of a funeral bell, but it sounded more like a scoff under his breath.    
“Please, enjoy the festivities we have planned for you.”

And then, all at once, twenty bodies leaped and gracefully landed on the table. 

Salhalan celebrations were known for their vibrance, their joy, its liveliness so intense it was  _ contagious _ . Women lined the table in sheer dresses, and their makeup and jewelry reminded him of those he saw as a boy, whose faces were pinched with mirth in such a manner they looked like newborns, ignorant to the cruelty of the world. 

Everyone else blanched. Never in Vornaya would they see something so expressive, so invasive in its humanness—even  _ smiling  _ was a learned and furtive practice. The dances in Vornaya were much more conservative; less intimate, they glided across the floor like asymptotes, coming close but never intersecting, then blazing their own paths, far away from one another. Then, they’d split, like birds finding new flocks.

Their mirth was so bright it might as well be blinding. 

They skillfully wove around the plates and the glasses, and he followed the path of their bare feet, anklets rose-red and fiery orange, umber and saffron. Their dresses spun around them in a dazzling display—so exuberant it’s dizzying. One looked him in the eyes, bending down to lift up the glass at the center of the table. The drink in it perilously trembled, wavering back and forth, and he was swept up in their laughter, their song, flowing so easily between them, these performers and acrobats. Flowing so easily it was like floodgates opening, and their dazzling magic spread to Petras and his other companions: all at once they were clapping and cheering them on. 

The magic was, indeed, infectious. An expression of awe pulled at the corners of his mouth _ .  _ Their grace reminded him of his mother—less sharp, more fluid, and definitely happier—but it was redolent of her grace nonetheless. Their spins and jumps became lost in the flowing ripples of their dresses, fabric knee-high and sheer enough to let the sunlight shine through, vibrant feathers—dyed and raven—bouncing with the songless rhythm of their joy. 

He did not smile, but his own eyes widened, and the woman above him returned his awe with a grin of her own. Her face was pale, and so was the rest of the skin he glimpsed, but her cheeks were red, like she tried to ward off the look of illness with a bold splash of blush. Her blond hair was cropped short, falling straight over her ears, and though she smiled, there was something distinctly haunted about it, as if her eyes housed none of the soul or liveliness her body portrayed. 

He barely even registered how she did it—but his own glass was being placed back into his hand, and she left the smell of morning glories behind when she floated away to entertain someone else. 

These people were performers—and they lived lavishly. Their only job was to impress guests and put on shows for the emperor, his wife, and the council. They were renowned across the world--visitors told of Salhalas’ vibrant and amazing dancers--but he only read about them second hand. Now he understood how they so easily captured everyone’s hearts. 

He stared after the woman with the haunted eyes, but she was already lost between the flash of colors and the sweet, dense air full of song. 

They all split from the table at once, and it was so sudden and abrupt it left him wondering if what he just saw was the product of a fevered dream. Petras murmured his praise, sipping freely from his wineglass, and all he could do was stare at his own drink and his empty plate, wordless. It was better to be quiet than say something that might offend, anyway.

The rest of the morning was not nearly as eventful. Servants filled their plates with food, and for the second night in a row he was well-fed. 

A man--no, a boy, at the very least a decade younger than him--tended to his own needs. Distantly, he listened to the emperor proudly boast of his dancers; how people traveled to Salhalas just to witness their beautiful performances and recitals. He turned away from the conversation for just a moment and looked at the boy, his skin tan and his hair parting down the middle to fall over his ears, and though he was young, his eyes were weathered.

He heard Petras, thin competition between them, “Perhaps you should come to Vornaya and see the works of some of our greatest playwrights and poets for yourself…” 

Instantly, he felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. How parallel their worlds were, even if he doesn’t know it. In the smallest realignment of fate, he had been plucked out of this empire and placed into another one, and now, by mere coincidence, occupied a seat that he had no place in occupying. He said nothing throughout dinner, intent on eavesdropping on the emperor’s booming voice and his son’s rich laughter, so laidback that it’s easy to remember how he had grown up: like this, never worrying about a single meal, so plump and easy. Something inside him bristled. 

A saying in Morvornaya went:  _ It’s easy to get the boy out of the country but much more difficult to get the country out of the boy. _

The servant boy came back again. He left with his empty dishes and returned with newer and fuller ones, their supply of food so endless it might as well be infinite. He barely even touched his drink and he was ready to refill it, the heavy glass weighing down his arms.

Something about him bothered him, even if he couldn’t exactly place what it is. Never would a Vornayan official be caught dead talking to someone of a lower caste than himself. His allegiance  _ was _ to himself, though, no matter what the empress may have thought.

He put his hand on his arm. The servant’s eyes flashed with alarm at this sudden invasion, and he froze.   
“No. I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about coming to check on me.” He forced his own eyes to soften, speaking a tongue he hasn’t spoken in years. It was whispered, so that even his neighbor may not hear. He handed him his empty glass. From afar, it looked like he was just asking for more. “I don’t need anything.”

He didn’t seem to process it. No matter what Jack may decide to do, it was forbidden of him to speak, and for Jack’s eyes to even gaze upon his own was a violation of protocol in of itself. He took the glass by its thin, glass stem and puts it on top of all the other plates.

It was the least he could do. As a child, he never imagined that another man would be serving him. It was wrong, for one’s life--so full of promise and opportunity--to be limited by another man’s caprice.

He watched the servant slip away, dismissed for the evening. 

When he turned back around to reach for his fork, he lifted his eyes and saw the heir, staring right at him. 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do apologize for the delay in posting; so much has happened in my life, affecting my ability to write, such as getting kicked out of my house, moving in, etc. i scrutinized this chapter for literal months, and never ended up truly satisfied with it; most of the bones are laid out here, and all books need those intermediary chapters that establish everything (and some authors can pull it off with grace.) 
> 
> it's funny, because this story was originally meant to be a short one; maybe 10k words, but i fell in love with the universe so quickly it escaped me. anyway, i hope you enjoy it, and thank you so much for reading.
> 
> find me on twitter @freusana

“It’s my pride that hurts, not my heart. This year I have no heart.” — Daniela Fischerová, from “Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else,” wr. c. 2000

His head was pounding. Call it culture shock, or squinting against the vibrant sun the entire morning.

They were all separated and shown their bedchambers, and he couldn’t be more grateful for the silence. His ears rung, still, from piercing laughter and the vibrant, shrill notes of the bards. Coming from such a loud place, he suddenly felt disoriented. He was used to the practice of sleeping in the morning and waking up at night; it was not a Vornayan thing.

Just an assassin thing. 

The bedchambers was much like the one at Vornaya. Not as massive as the family’s, but certainly massive enough someone like him could get lost in it. He didn’t know what to do in such a large space; he didn’t have that many things to even fill up the space. It was like conjuring up an old image of himself, one that didn’t exist anymore. He gazed at it in childish wonder for a moment, running his fingers over the blankets that were more for display than sleeping. 

Jack gazed at the assortment of pottery; their geometric patterns, flourishes of cresting waves, of birds and fish. No two were the same; each one had its own origin story, its own imprint left behind by someone he’d never know. He feared touching something so delicate. He only knew the art of breaking, damaging, violating. Never creation, never tenderness. He was an infant discovering the world for the first time. 

Enough of that. The first thing he wanted to do was  _ get out of these clothes.  _

He felt lighter when his cloak was off. He splashed his face with some water to at least feel a little cooler, and regarded himself in the mirror for a very long time. 

Sharp eyes stared back at him. It was no vanity, but rather inscrutable disdain. In the silence, the torrent of thoughts came easily and without reprieve. It was the face of a murderer, eyes hawkish and narrow, and when he squinted, there were already thin wrinkles forming underneath them. 

In that case, nothing distinguished him from the emperor.

His wrinkles were from a lifetime of squinting against the sun. In Salhalas, people admired you for it--it distinguished a seasoned adventurer from a newborn. In Vornaya, not so much. The more you aged, the more useless you became, unless you were lucky enough to be elected to a profession that required wisdom and maturity.

Like a plenipotentiary, for example. As it were, he was rapidly approaching that age of ultimate uselessness.

He slept intermittently. Ever since he entered Salhalas, something at him was  _ itching;  _ it was a thought he couldn’t suppress, and that thought translated roughly into instinct. When he wanted to do something, it nagged at him until he did it. 

The night was hardly young, but that didn’t matter. The emperor and his heir must have went to bed, and he’d be back before morning anyway. The only people up were the guards, patrolling the entire palace. He could pass over them easily with a lie. 

A feature of his room (that he was very grateful for, in retrospect) was the balcony, which was revealed when he opened its doors. It was not as massive as the empress’ in Vornaya, as the only thing he could see were the gardens and its trees. And through the branches, the glimmer of the moonlight on the ocean. 

He slid over the balustrade, feet dangling in the air. He judged the jump—it wasn’t that deep, really, maybe about thirty feet, but not something he wanted to risk—and sought the help of the cracks where stone met stone. Occasionally, he gazed around for any guards who might find him. He wedged his toes in there and, foothold by foothold, closed the gap between his body and the ground. When he was close enough, he leapt off and landed securely on the grass.

All of those years scaling roofs and buildings in the capital finally proved to be useful. He wasn’t a bumbling child anymore. 

The smell of morning glories was thick and sweet, turning the air into syrup. All the maids and gardeners retired long before he did, and so the garden was blissfully empty, its serenity culled occasionally by the flight of a lonely bird or the chatter of cicadas. 

He should turn back and go to bed, and maybe by morning this urticant question would’ve subsided and it wouldn’t bother him again. But it kept him wide awake, his mind sharp and alert. 

He had to do this. 

Jack crossed the width of the gardens, using bushes and fat trees for cover, moving with the shadows. He came close to the walkway, lined with the statues that had taken his breath away that evening. Following the path to the stables, he found the boy asleep, and his horse whinnied until he shushed it, stroking her side. After ensuring that she was fed, he guided her out of the stable and hooked his foot on the stirrup at her side. With a heave, he slung his leg over her side and nudged her with his heel. 

The bridge was more beautiful at night. The moon cast its reflection over the still waters where sea met horizon, and the breeze was cold enough to cool his sweating face. Guards, naturally, blocked his way, demanding where he was going so late in the night.  
  
If there was another way, he would’ve taken it. He didn’t want to be questioned.  
  
“I was told I was allowed to visit the city at my leisure,” he lied. He kept his voice young and innocent--a feat, when he towered over them even on his feet, but he raised his eyebrows and added, contemplatively, “I don’t think the emperor would want me to interrupt his sleep to ask.” 

Lying shouldn’t have come so easy to him, but it was second nature by this point. They merely parted and let him go.

He wanted to gallop down the bridge--wanted to feel the wind in his hair and the vague promise of freedom it always inspired. But he knew they were watching, and if he rushed away at full tilt, it would hardly do him any favors. Even his mare was impatient, shaking her head in the breeze, and he felt her power underneath him--she, too, wanted to run, as if she sensed the danger in this place. 

The city was an orange blossom in the distance, alight from within by a thousand candles and lanterns as it always was. Even at night, it was cast in full bloom, glowing like a miniature sun. More guards greeted him at the gates, the weapons on their backs glimmering wickedly in the moonlight. They glanced at him warily but let him in. 

He had never been in the richer districts at night; it was like a dream, and he was instantly allured by the arrays of jewelry lining merchants’ wrists and fingers. Of course he had passed through it on the way here, but it wasn’t nearly as alive then as it was now. It was easy to get lost in the dull thrum of people, a dialogue of song, murmurs, and laughter. He leaned in closer to look at the jewelry. The woman posing with it had fair skin and brown hair, and she stretched her fingers out, slender and lithe, a smile playing on her lips. He had enough money to buy it, but who would he give it to?    
He couldn’t help to look. It was like inviting a starving wolf to a bloodbath. 

He shook his head. That wasn’t why he was here. 

He wandered from the center--the songs faded, the life slowed and paused, as if he were hearing a song through a door. The crowd lessened, and even the air itself thinned out, as if it were threadbare and lacking the thick promise of song. He got weird looks from the occasional passerby; rarely did someone of such authority pass through here, unless they were searching houses or looking for an arrest. And even rarer still was anyone out this late.

This avenue was familiar.

He wandered it many times as a child, hauling a dress or some other garment, brandishing some nobleman’s crest to the guards to prove that he belonged here. Even then, his existence was constantly trying to prove itself, constantly configuring itself as a convenience.  _ I belong here _ . 

It all came back to him in a sudden flash, quick as lightning, and instinct guided him forward. He  _ did  _ belong here. Rarely could someone ever forget such a large part of their past; one’s identity and personality grew around it, and to yank it out would be to damage the person inside too. One would have to excise it, much like a cancer, but in doing so, the tissue around it was scarred. 

It dictated him like he was in a trance, and he was not a diplomat or a rebel or even anything else, just  _ Jack,  _ just a starving orphan with a head full of dreams and nothing to dine on. He pushed onward, through the merchant’s square--quiet, now, as they counted their coins and their profits and towed away what didn’t sell--and it was like gazing at a scorched forest that was once rich and full of life. 

This one loose end. He needed to tie it. It’s been bothering him for decades.

He turned left, as he had done so many times on his way back, down the small and thin street full of shops. He lived here, in this same street, gazing at his reflection by the ends of gutters where the occasional storm had overflowed them. 

There. His mother’s shop at the end of the street. 

He approached it slowly. Left his mare at the corner, tied her reins to a tall lantern post and calmed her. He expected her to step out, a hand on her bony hips, a candle illuminating her shrill and thinning face as she had always done. Demanding to know what he was doing out so late. Sweeping him in with an impatient hand, tugging his hair. 

His horse whinnied again, and he hushed her. He gazed into the window.

It was empty. 

What had he expected? Or even wanted?  
_   
_ _ A semblance of life _ , he told himself on the morose trek back. Or just  _ her,  _ to come parading out into the wet street, rags and thinning hair, voice piercing the air when she ordered him back inside. She always looked so angry, so  _ tired,  _ and she was tired, yes, but she was full, all because he came back with armloads of fruit and bread and maybe an extra coin. He attributed her silence to his own cleverness and wit, maneuvering around her questions with easy lies passed off as excuses.

But when he looked back, he knew that  _ she  _ knew. It’s that dreadful realization that you weren’t enough, as a parent, and that your child was taken into the wrong hands and doing things he didn’t know he shouldn’t be doing. It’s that dreadful realization when your child is parroting words he’s too young to know-- _ tyranny  _ and  _ slaughter  _ and  _ penance _ \--as if someone else was speaking through him, with vengeance so sharp it could kill, as if he were piloted by a spirit that wasn’t his own. His own was usurped by a flame much greater than his own, violence veiled with violence, as if blood was the only antidote for blood spilled so long ago--but how long ago is a generation?--that it was up on the wall now.

That girl came to him, that night--twelve since her death--with a rolled up paper in her hand, and her little face was tense, angry. It was kin recognizing kin, fire uniting with fire.  _ You’ve been wronged like I have,  _ his eyes said,  _ so we’ll cleanse the world together.  _

Her eyes had been red.

It’s why he opened it, unravelling the secret. The hand had not been the girl’s; it was too steady, too precise for that. He read it under his breath, in furtive and clunky murmurs.

The city sprawled out, orange limbs and candlelit heart, but he didn’t turn back around to gaze at it. The roaring of the ocean overcame any sound once more, and he sank into it, let the rough palm of the sea wash it all away, jetsam and oblivion.

The sea roared in a language all its own, and as his mare trotted down the bridge, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like to plunge into it. Supposedly, some had. (A mad heir, distraught at the death of his grandmother. A guard with his lover, to be executed for falling in love with the wrong person. A maiden, wanting to return home. Undoubtedly, death and the sea were intertwined.)

He wasn’t ready for the guards this time. He should have bought something to back up his excuse. A simple walk to clear up his headache from the heat. It’d have to do. 

But it wasn’t the  _ guards  _ that were waiting for him. It was the heir apparent, Gabriel. 

He thinned his lips in annoyance. Had someone  _ actually  _ sent for him? 

If he had any opinion toward him, it soured. He was a grown man, and not even of this empire. He didn’t  _ need  _ supervision. 

“His Imperial Highness,” Jack greeted solemnly after dismounting his horse, dropping his head into a bow. He kept his voice level, despite his own bitterness and tension. But he was nervous. He feared that Gabriel would also confront him about his earlier… transgression. “I hope I didn’t bother you.”

Gabriel had a habit of looking owlish, but not in a way that was innocent. Rather, he felt like he was being assaulted by his stare. Or one thousand knives. One thousand knives glazed in honey. 

“You didn’t.” The owlish look returned again. “May I ask why you left so late?”

“I had a headache,” he responded easily. “I wanted some fresh air.”  
  
“So you went all the way out into the city instead of the gardens… or any other part of the palace.” Gabriel drew his eyebrows together. 

“I’m allergic.”  
  
“You’re allergic?”  
  
“We don’t have flowers in Vornaya. I’m sure you understand.”  
  
The jab wasn’t lost on Gabriel, though he looked confused, as if he couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He was taken aback, and so he seemed to retreat, regain himself, and, in a sudden show of honesty, said, “I was already awake and I saw you leave. People are very restless in the city right now, Honorable, even though you come armed with promises of peace.” 

He didn’t need to be told that. The colors he wore bore enough animosity when he was there as it were. 

Jack wrinkled his nose anyway. He kept his face unnaturally still, taut like a sail with no wind. “I promised nothing. Negotiation, maybe, but that’s it. Whether it ends in peace or not is up to you.” 

If Gabriel was uneasy, he didn’t show it. He kept his own face level, possibly hopeful, “I would hope Vornaya and Salhalas can come to an agreement.”  
  
An olive branch, rectifying his father’s cultural misstep. He relented, only a pace, but the bitterness still burned strong. “I agree.” 

Gabriel looked at the sky, and a long pause stretched between them. He was restless to get inside. Two decades of wondering… and he had gotten his answer. It was anticlimactic. All that waiting, and the answer was so achingly simple, so hollow. Now the exhaustion was whittling him down, as if the smallest hope persisted in fighting it off, and after it was extinguished, nothing was to stop the weariness from slamming down. 

It was the only logical answer. He had anticipated it. Anticipated a thousand answers, just not that one. Just not the most logical one. It was like scooping the dirt out of the earth for a grave, the earth certainly feeling that absence, but there was nothing left to bury. 

“It’s a long day tomorrow. You should get some sleep, Honorable.” Gabriel looked back at him again, and he was weaned back into reality, slowly. The smell of morning glories and growing mangoes, suffocatingly sweet, like an echo of his mother reimagined in perfume. If only he had figured something out.

He didn’t remember mumbling a thank you or bowing his head. Just that he wanted to go to bed.

  
  


_ “And what about you? When was your first time? _ ”

He remembered how her eyes were red—vibrant red, like blood straight from the body, like the blood on a king’s crown, the blood tarnishing crushed velvet. When she was passionate, her eyes lit up, as if that blood was congealed, two rubies darting across his face back and forth, back and forth, like clockwork.

“Mine, I watched him writhe. I cut him so he could look me in the eyes as he bled out. So he’d know who killed him. I wanted him to  _ remember  _ me.” 

Of course he remembered his first kill. Everyone did. It’s a rite of passage. 

And it’s the beginning of a disease. It metastasizes inside of you, and it doesn’t stop. 

Oddly enough he remembered the embroidery on the rug. It was yellow, brown thread; his feet sunk into it slightly when he walked, and he imagined how it would look with blood on it. Not in an innocently curious way. The thought was quite sickening, and the thought revolted against every fiber of his being, or rather, his being revolted against the fiber of the thought. If that made sense. 

They hated that about him. He had compassion; he found it everywhere, like orphaned coppers stuck between the furniture. He found a reason to feel bad for everybody. Here, compassion was the disease. 

He stared at the back of the man’s spine. He could count the vertebrae. 

The girl leaned in with vicious curiosity when he got to this part.

“I put the knife in him, and he was dead. I don’t know. I didn’t really look.” That was that. She wouldn’t know the rest; she didn’t need to, because there was freedom in secrecy. Dissatisfied, she huffed a hard breath that disturbed her hair and went back to wrapping her arm in its dirty bandage. 

“That’s rich.”

  
  


“Look alive, boy. You’re making me tired just looking at you.” 

Petras knocked his arm, and he blinked awake. The emperor hadn’t arrived yet, and the fullness of breakfast was settling in his stomach. It made him sleepier than he already was. 

It was true that he spent many days on a handful of hours of sleep. It wasn’t new to him. But hunger had always kept him sharp, and fear of being apprehended even sharper. He always lived in a shadow of fear, and it always remained one pace behind him. He outwitted it every time, but within these walls it was gradually closing in, tightening around him like a noose. It should’ve kept him alert, but it didn’t. 

He had slept like a rock the past few days. It was only a few hours of sleep between, until a chambermaid quietly rapped on his door and woke him up. In Vornaya, a bell had woken him up--one that rang across the empire--and so the pure invasiveness of her visit surprised him. Most of his nights were spent walking the perimeter of the palace, memorizing every angle, every window, trying to place which one the emperor’s could possibly be. He blamed his exhaustion on the heat. 

A maid had tried to help him get dressed that morning, her patient hands laying out all of his clothes while he threw his arm over his eyes. He hadn’t even gotten out of the clothes he had worn yesterday. He collapsed into bed and fell asleep instantly, and a second later the sunlight was streaming in. The maid was parting them open. 

It was never so bright in Vornaya. Everything about it was muted, lessened, as if some of the energy had been siphoned from it, and it was more white than yellow. Its presence was gray and lackluster. It had been, ever since the Salhalan emperor took their artifact.   
Not here. 

It didn’t help that the bedchambers were on the eastern side of the wing. Everything about its architecture was created and built in such a way that it augmented light. There were sunrooms. Windows on the ceilings (which he had never seen before, and it draped the hallways in a rich, yellow glow), windows on the walls. They were as tall as four men stacked on top of each other, the ceilings high and arched with gilt paint, so as to reflect the light in places where windows weren’t reasonable.

Seeing Gabriel at breakfast was odd after their encounter. Well, after their  _ second  _ encounter, if the first was to count at all.  _ That  _ still made him nervous. It was like sitting under the guillotine, knowing that the blade was coming. You just didn’t know  _ when.  
_   
Yet, a few days had passed, and he was still alive, and no one seemed none the wiser.

This time, another woman of the inner council was present. He heard her voice and the bellowing laughter of the other nobility after. Her presence was almost playful, languid like a cat, and her eyes were honeyed. Her smile pinched the corner of her eyes, showing signs of graceful aging. He watched her for a while, attracted to her smooth disposition and ageless gaze. It brought him back to that morning he climbed the spire and the knight who brought him down, if his eyes were less boisterous, his voice less booming. She radiated debonair charm. It reminded him of a schoolboy who wasn’t out of mischief yet. 

Ana, the name suddenly occurred to him. Amari, the appointed noblewoman in charge of the distant territory of Ibardoli.  
  
That was one of the first territories annexed by Salhalas; it had belonged to Vornaya, formerly, and served as an abundance for iron. It was partly why Vornaya became economically crippled—its main source of profit was severed. 

Yet, before all of that, it wasn’t known for its iron. It had been a land full of astronomers and mathematicians, people who turned their eyes upward instead of inward. People still traveled there to learn about the stars and to visit the world’s first planetarium, as they called it. 

Ibardoli was constantly in a state of tumult and rebellion trying to regain its independence… even under Vornayan rule. Thinking about it, he didn’t know  _ if  _ the territory ever had a taste of sovereignty. And as for Ana… he didn’t know her stance on their struggle for independence. The information he had on it was wildly ambiguous at best, and he never got a specific answer. 

He wished he knew. It would determine whether she was an enemy or not… a majority of the rebellion capitalized on the Ibardolites’ righteous anger and vindication. 

He kept a mental note to keep an eye on her. 

Petras, completely oblivious to Jack’s thoughts, said, “That is Ana Amari. She looks frail, doesn’t she?”  
  
Jack did not answer. It was not wise to underestimate an opponent.

“If you’re thinking she is, then you’re mistaken. She’s the best archer in this empire’s history, if you’d believe it. She was a general in the war, and in exchange for her service, she was granted ownership of Ibardoli.”

Now she was here, sweeping her gaze along them with keen appraisal. When she turned her head towards him, he saw the legend about her eye was true. Unlike the other council members, her gaze was softer, but it was softness bred from war and violence.

Petras continued, “It’s said she can pin a fly to the wall across the room with an arrow. And keep it alive.”

She smiled at him. 

Jack blinked owlishly in confusion. 

The morning whizzed by in intense bursts of conversation, verging on arguments that would’ve turned violent if not for the wise mediation of the emperor’s inner council. Ana never said anything, and he just watched her eyes flick wisely back and forth between speaker and listener, as certain and polished as the old, steely clocks back at Vornaya. 

_ Negotiations aren’t done in a day, _ Satya had told him, obviously displeased at his impatience. He thought of this as the emperor relaxed in his burnished chair, one arm carelessly thrown over the side, like it was just a game of chess, and he was certain of winning. 

He eyed the necklace hanging from the emperor’s neck. The heart of an empire, reduced to a pawn in a game. 

He wondered what Vornaya would have to give up to get that artifact back. The empire’s pride was of no concern to him, but he couldn’t imagine Vaswani  _ or  _ Petras groveling for it; Satya in particular. It would pain him to see a woman so dignified pleading for her own empire’s well-being, especially when she had grown with him through most of his adolescence. 

And it pained him more to imagine her face when she found out all of it was a lie.

Petras and Vaswani wanted reparations. Money, an apology for the Vornayan regiment that was captured and publicly beheaded. It was the execution that had begun the war and justified the Salhalan assault on their mines. Salhalas had been starved of steel, their mines bare, so they turned their eyes to the next resource: Vornaya. 

They had talked about it at length before their arrival at the capital. The most ideal situation would be the reacquisition of lost territories--Ibardoli, in particular, though Jack knew hell would freeze over before the emperor gave up such a lucrative resource. Of equal interest was a small territory next to the sea, east of here. Primeria. They had been Vornaya’s bridge to the outside world, and one of the most lucrative ports on the continent.

Salhalas had annexed them both, and violently. They were so far away that Vornaya received news of the attack too late, and they were already crippled by a lack of an emperor anyway. The empire was spread too thin, floundering through its underdeveloped bureaucratic channels. There was no consensus on what to do, so Vornaya stagnated while their limbs were ripped away, one by one. 

Now, Vornaya was paralyzed, and Salhalan troops still lingered inside the border, progressing closer to the capital. Perhaps even then, as they spoke, they were advancing through the perilous mountain ranges, struggling toward the capital. 

If the winter didn’t kill them first. 

He wandered the gardens again before lunchtime. The talks took up a large block of the morning everyday. Vaswani and Petras lingered behind, speaking to each other in hushed voices. He always stayed there for a while as pretense.

Satya turned her eyes toward him. “And what of you, Jack?”

“What?” Jack was busy staring at a very interesting bureau. 

Annoyed, Satya said, “Your opinion? On the talks today?”

“Oh,” Jack muttered. “Well… obviously Emperor Reyes is too prideful to give us what we want. It’s merely a game to him.”

They stared at him questioningly. 

“Look at the way he talks. Even the way he sits. It’s funny to him.”

Satya nodded. “I have noticed this, actually. He’s very gungho about it.” 

“Nothing will be enough to appease our people. That’s simply how it is,” Jack said, “we could reverse all of the damage, but the damage will never be truly undone. Nothing will bring back the mothers, the fathers, and the sons.” 

“We have to at least try,” Petras snipped.

“I don’t deny that,” Jack said, aggravated. “It’s not a fault within our people. It’s the result of war. It will always be a scar on our history. Suffering and turmoil runs in our veins.” 

“Then what do you propose?” Satya asked.

“It’s… hard when one side is being recalcitrant.” Jack hesitated. What he was about to say could be deemed very radical. “Vornaya’s economy was dependent on territories too far from it. That flaw was exploited by Salhalas. When we were cut off, our economy stagnated because of it. Not only that, but we were stretched too thin. I think Salhalas should pull its soldiers out of our territory, yes, and give us back what is ours—that is, the necklace, the heart of our people—and repay us, for a certain amount of time, through aid.”

“Aid,” Satya pondered. “Supplies?” 

“Human aid. Help us rebuild.” 

“You want Salhalans inside our borders?” Petras gawked. 

“Not soldiers. Plus, having them so close can help bridge what was damaged. It won’t fix everything, but we need to build a hopeful future for our children. We need to build an alliance.” 

“As if,” Petras said, “even if I agreed, the empress would never allow such a blatant display of weakness. Need I remind you our previous emperor was killed by Salhalas’ current emperor?” 

“Then nothing will ever get done. We need money. We need to build roads. Trade routes. We need to rebuild our infrastructure; we need an economy. As it stands, we are too weak to do that on our own. Sitting here and arguing over who gets what will get us nowhere.” 

“None of what you said solves this economy problem,” Satya said.  
  
“You’re right. I don’t have a solution for that yet. I mean… it’s a flaw inherent to the land; there is hardly any natural resource in Vornaya worth selling, unless you want to dig into the mountains. And I don’t think negotiating with Salhalas will magically fix the economy. That comes with policy through other states. What we need to focus on is the immediate.”

“The heir seems more flexible,” Satya offered. “I think it bears considering to appeal to him, too. We are all tired of war; I’m sure his people are, just like our own. Surely as the emperor’s son, his opinion must have  _ some  _ merit.”

“It’s because the heir is young and naive, just like this one.” Petras scoffed, gesturing to Jack with his thumb. Jack scowled at him, vitriol lashing through him, though he suppressed it. “Anyway, the empress would never allow it, and she would probably behead you for even suggesting it. Your view is admirable, Jack, but it’s idealistic. Childish. Besides, nothing we can offer will ever persuade him to give us back our amulet. We’re playing a losing game.” 

“Fine.” He was a hired sword. His job was to end things, not begin them, anyway. “Remember that it was  _ my  _ father killed in this war, too.” 

“We’ll be here for years at this point,” Satya muttered. 

As if he would ever see peace come to fruition. 

After their talks, Jack found himself storming silently through the gardens. He needed to reorient himself, remind himself of why he was here. What was crucial was getting the emperor alone, and he couldn’t do that without knowing his schedule. It was perhaps the most rudimentary and boring part of the job—if killing could be classified as entertaining—but it was something he was good at. He wasn’t a spy, but the scope of his job was so grand he had no choice.

He inched around the gardens—they surrounded the entire structure, with paths carved through low-hanging trees to each wing—and stopped to admire the glass statues. One statue in particular caught his attention; it was tucked behind a copse in full bloom, and the sunlight caught glimpses of it when the leaves shifted. 

He was looking at a woman. A prophetess, judging by the marks on her face. It was one he did not recognize. She had strong, tall cheekbones, and her eyes were closed, suggesting peace, her arms raised above her head, eternally repentant. Beneath her was a plaque, and he read those numbers with a sharp chill:  
  
_ 12:1.  _

A small cluster of voices attracted his attention, ripping his gaze from the plaque. It was the shrill voices of the staff, talking quickly in Salhalan tongue, sharp when compared to the languid, easy nature of the royalty; a non-native would’ve struggled to keep up.

He forced himself to keep silent, still as water, blending in with his surroundings. 

“... preparing for the performance in a month.”

His blood stilled, and he strained to listen. 

“On such short notice, too.” The voice was younger, irritated, yet it was still aged with maturity. He heard a sigh. Their voices were fading, so he prowled along the edges of the garden, closest to the railings whose gap revealed a terrifying drop. 

“It’s part of your duty as staff, my girl. If the emperor orders it, you do it, to the best and quickest of your ability.”

“I know.” 

They disappeared inside. 

He had about thirty minutes to be back at the dining hall. A plan was slowly forming in his mind. 

He kept a careful distance from them, always keeping them in earshot. They were heading toward the southern wing, where most of the domestic workers lived. They stopped, and he tucked himself away in an alcove, listening to them talk.

He was getting impatient, keeping track of the time in his mind and getting uncomfortably intimate with the bust of a late senator, until they finally parted. While he waited, he brought up the blueprint of the palace in his mind. Most of the floors of the southern wing were uniform. The housekeeper’s would be at the very center. 

He forced himself to stay still, listening for the heavier footsteps of the older woman; she was going left. 

Straining his ears for footsteps, he traversed deeper into the southern wing, following the carpeted sounds of the woman’s stride. She opened a door, and he peered around a corner just in time to see which door was closing. He waited, tapping his fingers against his thigh in impatience. He was never supposed to be a  _ spy.  _ By the time he came into the picture, the spies were already gone, and he was given all the information he needed  _ from  _ them. 

She shut the door behind her, mumbling to herself about something. He seized his chance and slipped inside the room she had come from. 

There was a single window, but it hardly let in enough light he needed to see. Letting his eyes adjust, he took a breath and calmed the sound of his heart. By the window was a desk, and he surged towards it, swiftly opening and closing drawers until he came across a formal note in the last one. 

He held it to the small sunrays of light that the window let in. 

_ Missus Ramos,  _

_ The emperor has requested the staff to prepare the amphitheater for a performance coming in a month from Saturday. He sends his apologies for such short notice. He would also remind you that this performance is given in anticipation of our Morvornayan guests. As is custom for Morvornayans, please be sure to . . .  _

What followed was a menial list of Vornayan traditions that are observed in a formal setting, such as no gloves on the housekeeping staff. He squinted at the cursive which became nearly unintelligible by the end, but it noted that the “guests” were to be seated a row behind the inner council so as to make them feel “most welcomed.”   
The date was two weeks before they arrived. He put the letter back in the drawer.

He had a month to figure out a plan. 

That night, after another lengthy dinner that he found it nearly impossible to excuse himself from, he sat down at the desk in his chambers. He requested stationery from one of the chambermaids when he checked in on him, and within minutes, another arrived with the paper and ink. 

He dismissed her, insisting that he needed nothing else, and she bowed to him once. 

He listened for a long time, tensing at any sound of footsteps. The moon was high in the sky when he reached in his bag for his pocket cipher. Opening it flat on the desk--and obscured by his body if anyone were to look, despite his door being closed--he looked over the long list of sharp, jagged symbols that constructed the Vornayan language. Then he placed the template, neatly tucked next to the cipher in his bag, on top of the blank paper.

The template was cut into with a knife. It was merely two pieces of hide adhered to each other, and small holes--large enough to fit any word, but small enough to fit multiple onto one sheet--were cut into the template randomly. 

Someone back at Vornaya had one that was exactly the same. 

Inside each rectangle, he wrote:  _ subot _ ,  _ spektek _ ,  _ imperiat _ ,  _ yubitysta _ . 

Saturday, performance, emperor, finish. 

Then he wrote the letter around it. 

Just as he was flourishing his signature, someone knocked on his door. In an uncharacteristic panic, he stuffed the pocket cipher and the template under his mattress. 

Why would  _ anyone  _ be visiting him at this time?

“Wait a minute,” he called to the door. Hoping that they would assume he wasn’t dressed--when he hadn’t gotten undressed since he came back from dinner--he stripped himself of his garments and slipped into something lighter. 

His heart was racing, still, even when he opened the door.

It was Gabriel.

If it was possible, his heart surged even  _ more,  _ pounding fearfully in his chest _ .  _ He didn’t like staring into the faces of people he had to kill--it was a violation of everything he stood for. A violation of intimacy.

Intimacy he could never have. 

He forced himself to harden, but allowed himself a quizzical expression. Gabriel had caught him disarmed, no pretenses, no formality. He bowed.

“Honorable,” Gabriel greeted with a warmth characteristic to Salhalas, “can we abandon the formal pretenses for tonight?”

Jack didn’t say anything. He just raised himself out of his bow, somehow more annoyed that he had bowed when he didn’t have to. There was a long silence, Jack gazing pointedly down at the threshold between them like it was an unwelcome nuisance, then back to the heir’s face. It was bad practice in Vornaya to talk about anything over a threshold, and even worse practice in Salhalas to gaze a royal directly in the eyes. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gabriel said easily. “I just wanted to ask you to come for a walk with me.”  
  
Jack silently disappeared into his room and fetched his coat. It’s not like he could deny Gabriel anything he wanted. 

It was still odd to him, even after so many years of doing it, to slip into this facade. One that rarely spoke unless spoken to, one that rarely smiled or laughed. Even the most basic human pleasures were denied to a Vornayan--especially in a foreign territory, especially as an official--unless they were in the presence of someone they could trust. Laughter was freedom, and freedom was anarchy. Anarchy began in the individual. 

Salhalans expressed everything the Vornayans restrained. Sometimes he envied it, because this skin was one that was beginning to stick, no matter how odd it felt. Sometimes it became too natural. 

Gabriel was waiting for him by the entrance to the gardens. The guards glanced at them both as they passed, though they didn’t say anything. Apparently, the heir walking around late at night wasn’t much of a spectacle, either. 

“I know it seems odd to ask to go for a walk,” Gabriel said, “but I do it with everyone.”  
  
“Hmm,” was all Jack said.  
  
“Interestingly enough, I got the same answer from everyone else when I said that. The woman--Satya, isn’t it?--probably said three words to me throughout the entire conversation. They were, ‘Are you done?’”

Jack shrugged and raised his eyebrows. That sounded like Satya. It took her about three years to even talk to him outside of business. Another three years after the initial “Good morning.” 

When they were far out into the gardens, Gabriel didn’t look at him when he asked, “Did you like the city?”

That was his plan. Confront and attack. No song and dance.  
  
Jack replied stiffly, “Yes.”

Gabriel waited, but when he realized he wasn’t getting anything else, he joked, “Do you have any other responses other than  _ yes  _ and  _ no _ ?” He gazed at him, as if waiting for an applause for a joke he heard a thousand times. 

Jack, unsmiling, replied, “Yes.” He was staring at a patch of morning glories, and the memory of his mother resurfaced, as jarring and nauseating as a dead corpse washing up on the shore. 

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. He imagined the heir’s surprise that his charm, which he must have relied on to maneuver through any kind of conversation, had no effect on him. He was more pleasured by the thought than he should have been. 

They walked for a while in silence. It became almost pleasant. The air had a syrupy, thick quality to it that one could only attribute to summer, and it made him sleepy. The garden was full of flowers and faunae that he had never seen before.

“I wanted to apologize for my father’s . . . callousness.” He leaned on the word, as if trying to find one that didn’t damn him. The tone of his voice made his apology sound forced, like it pained him.

Jack couldn’t look at him. The more he looked at him, the more he would hesitate when the time came. 

“He’s used to getting what he wants,” Gabriel put bluntly. It surprised him, so much that his head turned, against his will, to look at him. “You’re probably wondering why I dragged you out here.”

Gabriel waited, but the pause was shorter this time. “I don’t necessarily agree with his politicking. I don’t agree with a lot of what he’s done, if I’m honest. I guess that’s blasphemy.”  
  
Jack regarded him stiffly. He was very, very suspicious that Gabriel was putting this much trust in him. “They cut heads off for that where I’m from.”

“You think we don’t cut heads off here too?” Gabriel chuckled. “Vornayans are just more public about it. What I’m saying is, I want things to change.” His voice was suddenly hard, and he reminded himself that this was the emperor’s son, for better or for worse. Despite Jack looking ahead, Gabriel’s eyes bore into the sides of his head. “He’s my father, but I don’t want anymore senseless violence. I’m sure you don’t, either. Both sides have suffered losses.” 

Jack bit his tongue, knowing that what he wanted to say verged on disrespect. He wore this “us” so easily. Yet never was he more aware that he belonged to neither Salhalas or Morvornaya. “We just happened to lose everything while you gained everything.”

Gabriel’s shoulders were tense, but he stared at something he couldn’t see. “No, we didn’t really gain anything.”  
  
Jack stormed silently and nearly growled. “Glad you think so.”

Gabriel had a retort for this, but Jack saw that he stopped himself. 

The mood between them had soured--or, at least, Gabriel’s had. Jack collected himself, and exhaled slowly.

Gabriel seemed to smirk at that, and it threatened to enrage him all over again. There was something innate in his smirk that made him absolutely punchable. “So you northerners  _ are  _ capable of feeling emotion, huh?” 

“I hope for your sake you didn’t say all of that to test me.”

“I didn’t.” 

They stopped at the edge. Jack was taken, again, by the enormous glass statue. When it reflected moonlight, somehow it looked even more radiant. He envied it. He envied how everything here glowed, how even Gabriel himself glowed. How something so simple was simply so unattainable. 

“What I was saying,” Gabriel continued in the silence, “we can restore peace if we work together.”

“Perhaps we can,” Jack proceeded carefully, “but I doubt our people will be so easily swayed. We’re talking a decent amount of generations worth of hate.”  
  
“You’re talking to me, aren’t you?” 

He was. And he was listening.   
  
“Are you going to take every single Vornayan citizen and have a chat with them in your gardens?”  
  
Gabriel glanced at him, and he smiled. “I could. Because if every one person out of three is open to having a conversation with me, I think that’s making some pretty good progress.” 

“Good luck. Our empire is probably over four million people.”  
  
Gabriel smirked. “Child’s play. Give me … what, four years?”

Jack scoffed. “You forgot a zero.” 

Gabriel turned around, laughing, and looked out toward the sea. 

Jack imagined counting the vertebrae. 

There was a certain guilt weighing on his mind when Gabriel left that hadn’t been there before. A guard escorted him back to his room in silence. It’s that kind of silence that follows laughter and company--some would call it  _ loneliness _ . He noticed the questioning stare he was giving him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to entertain or deny any of his meaningless convictions. Gabriel and he had come up with a quick, unnoticeable gesture that would signal that the other wanted to talk. 

He cursed himself, but Gabriel more than anyone else. He had refused to think of him as anything but an heir, with a degree of formality to separate the two. 

His own guilt didn’t matter. His feelings rarely did, and he never bothered to question whether his targets were innocent or guilty. The emperor was guilty. He never doubted that, nor would he ever begrudge the knife he’d inevitably plunge into his chest. Whether it was his own or someone else’s. 

But Gabriel’s sentence was more complicated than that. 

He never gave the sentences. He was merely the executioner. That moral standing belonged to someone else.

Executioner is far more different than killer. 

Letter in hand, he approached the dead drop in the early morning. The sun hadn’t even touched the sky. He did not know who would receive it—only that someone would, and that they would deliver it to the proper hands. This degree of separation ensured the security of everyone involved, and that if one limb was cut off, the bleeding could be controlled.

Everyone was still asleep. Approaching the southern wing, he loosened one of the balusters beneath the glass statue, and placed the letter underneath. Then he scuffed it with a stone. No one would notice it from afar, but if you were looking for it, it’d be a dead giveaway.

He glanced around, keeping his breath still. It was silent. The next guard rotation wouldn’t occur for another eight minutes. He slipped away, just as the sun was rising. The emperor’s fate was sealed. 

So was his.

The days dragged on by, sluggish and suffocatingly hot. For the most part, they blended in with one another, and he found comfort in the routine.    
He hadn’t heard anything back. It was a week from the performance, and the palace was bustling with anticipation. If he woke up early, he listened to the distant rhythm of the dancers practicing outside. The drum of their feet, one-two, then weightless silence. Sometimes, he leaned out on his balcony to watch them. The heat was heavy and oppressive, draped across the land like a thick blanket, and every breath he took felt stuffy and labored. He might as well been trying to inhale cotton.

He knew that, one way or another, the location of the next dead drop would be relayed to him, but for once, he was uncharacteristically nervous. No doubt the next letter would reveal to him who exactly it was in the Inner Council that Jack would be paving the way for.

The scope of his crime--existing, as a fraud, in these clothes and in this palace--weighed on the back of his mind, and so he saw everything through a thin lens of deceit and paranoia. 

He was never the type to lie in wait. 

The morning was unnaturally hot, even by Salhalan standards. The rising sun, its brightness amplified by the glass, was giving him a headache. Sitting in a large room, flanked by guards, he was watching a man give a speech, his dark forehead glinting with a thin sheen of sweat. He was young. The sight of him struck a fearful chill in him, somehow. 

His shoulders were broad, his movements rigid and powerful as he spoke with grand gestures. The effect he could have on an audience was hypnotizing, and he moved around the room, as ominous and calm as a looming thunderstorm. He was discussing something that wasn’t even remotely interesting, but somehow he made it compelling. 

While everyone was staring at him as he stalked back to his seat, Jack’s eyes were trained on the emperor, who was smiling in sharp approval. Somehow he made even a smile look menacing. His eyes fixed on Gabriel. He saw a brief flash of uncertainty and even indignance, but he smoothed it over as quickly as it came, and leaned back in his chair. Satya tightened her expression in thinly veiled disgust. 

“I told you this was a waste of time,” she muttered scornfully to Petras. She pressed a handkerchief to her brow. 

“Like I asked for this,” he shot back under his breath. “I want to go home as much as you do. It’s hot.” 

That’s how it’s been the past few days. 

He turned his eyes back to the emperor and noticed something unusual.

He was still smiling, but his fingers were restless. Something had undermined the certainty of his grin, and it didn’t quite meet his eyes. Like he was fighting off something. Jack leaned in, slightly, watching him closely. No one else seemed to notice this.    
Except Gabriel. He looked at Gabriel’s white-knuckled grip, his hawk-sharp eyes, his lips moving quietly.

That’s the emperor fell over. 

Gabriel was the first to act.

In everyone’s stunned silence, Gabriel leapt forward to catch him before he hit the floor. Jack stood up, though he knew there was nothing he could do. It was a show of grace and energy that he had never seen Gabriel exhibit before, but he hardly had time to think about that because the heir was fiercely ordering, “Fetch Lindholm.” 

Squatted on the floor, he watched the heir take a breath and shake his head, lips moving in something he couldn’t make out. A prayer, maybe.    
He hardly noticed as a servant brushed past him to do as Gabriel said. They didn’t apologize. Within minutes--the audience tersely watching Gabriel stare at his father, pointedly ignoring their silent questions--he heard the echo of their footsteps. A woman with a whorl of red hair emerged from the throng of idling people, holding a satchel at her hip, and she closed the gap between herself and the emperor within seconds. 

She squatted beside Gabriel. He watched their exchange--her nudging Gabriel aside, Gabriel saying something to her as he shifted to the side--and something in him simmered. 

His view of the emperor was eclipsed by a ring of people. Satya and Petras glanced at one another, unable to mask even their own shock. It all happened in less than two minutes. Jack, on the other hand, was busy watching Gabriel. 

“Ambassadors,” a servant eclipsed his view of Gabriel, “it would be best if we cleared some space to give the doctor some room.”

They nodded and followed the servant out. Jack lingered behind, as if trying to scavenge a final glance at Gabriel, though he was busy talking to Amari, pointedly glancing at his father throughout their conversation. He couldn’t make out what he was saying. 

For a while, he stayed with Petras and Vaswani, listening in on their hushed whispers as they all sat in a grand hallway with an opulent carpet. Half paying attention, he replayed the scene over and over in his head, deconstructing it and reconstructing it, trying to figure out what had  _ actually  _ happened. The split second his expression changed. His eyes rolling back. Gabriel launching himself out of his seat, like he was ready, like he had anticipated it. 

There were too many variables. It could’ve been an accident. It could’ve been the heat. Or it could’ve been something else. Maybe Gabriel noticed the change of his disposition before Jack did, and that’s why he had acted so quickly. 

For the most part, the room was silent. Petras and Vaswani were waiting for news, their whispers dying as they became still, patiently waiting for any word. Satya closed her eyes. 

Jack didn’t have their patience. Instead, he dismissed himself to go for a walk while they waited for news. In reality, he just wanted an excuse to placate his racing thoughts, or at least be able to think to himself without Petras tapping on the floor.

He couldn’t shake his annoyance. He spent the past week meticulously documenting the emperor’s schedule, looking for weaknesses, for obstacles, just in case the performance didn’t work out . . . 

And now, because of whatever happened, everything would be radically different. He’d be starting from square one. 

Knowing the emperor, he would adamantly refuse any displays of weaknesses, though the doctor would curb his own activity, to a degree, as well at the discretion of the council, once they figured out whatever it was that ailed him. His freedom would, at the very least, be more limited than it was.

If he was terminally ill, well. . . that would leave Gabriel to act in his place. 

The idea of assassinating Gabriel at the play instead made  _ him  _ slightly ill. Never minding the  _ official  _ reason he was here--to retrieve the artifact--his grudge wasn’t with Gabriel. It was with the emperor. 

_ Yet Gabriel is complicit in all his actions,  _ he reasoned with himself.  _ It’s not like he’s powerless.  _

Jack rounded the corner and knocked right into someone who was holding a glass of water.

He looked at the servant, hardly fazed by it. She was significantly smaller, though, and she stumbled back, just catching her step and gripping him rigidly to right herself. Their eyes met, blue on blue, her own gaze wide.  _ Afraid.  _

It wasn’t a servant. 

It was the dancer. The same one he had seen on his first day at the palace.

Her body was unnaturally still. She hardly breathed. Her nails were beginning to pinch into his arm, and he wanted to pull away, but her gaze kept him tethered. It kept him  _ rooted,  _ and even when he moved his arm back, she clutched it tighter. She pulled him _in, _sucked into the blackness of her irises, how they shrunk with fear, terror, horror. 

“Honorable Morrison,” she gasped suddenly, as if she had just emerged from underwater, “Oh, I’m so sorry--”

She broke away from him, finally relinquishing her grip on his arm while her eyes darted to his clothes. His skin stung where her nails had dug in, and he glanced at the four angry marks on his flesh. 

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “Are you alright--”  
  
“Let me get you something for that.” 

Did he imagine it? He glanced down at his arm again. She was already ushering him into an empty room, grabbing a dry rag to press to his clothes.  
  
“It’s really nothing; I was going back to my room anyway and--”  
  
She didn’t let him finish. She silenced him with her stare, and the words died away. They passed a few minutes in silence, her hands trying to wring out as much water as she could, Jack more stunned than anything else--the emperor fainting, now this--that he had nothing else to say. He simply sat down.  
  
He looked at her, really looked at her this time. Her hair was blond, cascading over her shoulders in waves disheveled by movement. She smelled faintly of sweat and powder, and when he glanced down at her feet and hands, he saw they were whiter than the rest of her. Her frame was small, bony, sharp angles jutting out as joints, a tiny forelock flicked out of place that she kept tossing her head to dismiss.

“I’m sorry I can’t do much more,” she began. Her words were careful, precise, lilted in an unfamiliar accent. Something about her didn’t sit right. Her movements felt contrived, like she scripted the whole scene before it began, the way she spoke strict and artificial.  
  
She bunched the rag up and wrung it over outside the window, and he heard the water hitting the plants below. He watched her, analytical now, eyes narrow when she passed by him. 

She brushed his cloak. Her hand found his, powdered and unusually calloused. He felt the wrinkle of a sliver of parchment. She looked over her shoulder at him, and then she left. 

Her footsteps faded down the corridor. When he was sure he was alone, he unfolded the paper. 

_ 12:1.  _

At dinner, the emperor was back again. Some part of him was disappointed, though he couldn’t place why. He explained that his “accident” was because of the heat; not even Salhalans were immune to it, he claimed, and everyone in the hall erupted in polite laughter. Petras and Satya nodded in agreement. 

He was occupied and distracted. It was uncharacteristic of him, and it bothered him. The one thing he prided himself on was his certainty and ability to assess a situation. In the wake of everything that happened that day--and his conversation with Gabriel days ago--he felt his composure failing him. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was heat, maybe it was the endless boring routine of politics. But he was agitated. 

And the heart of his agitation was all the way across the table, laughing boisterously with the councilwoman Amari. Whenever he laughed, he glanced at Jack out of the corner of his eye, and that only frustrated him more. He noticed that his eyes crinkled with mirth when he laughed, and that his laugh was sharp and abrupt, yet not as agitating as the emperor’s laughter, which was like a boom of thunder for all to hear, as if even the act of laughing was performative, an act of conquest. 

All the sensations angered him. He felt Gabriel watching him as he politely excused himself, saying he felt ill because of the heat, and slipped away.

As soon as he returned to his room, he burned the parchment that dancer had given him.  
  
He sat on the edge of his bed. There was no doubt what it meant. She was on his side; she knew what he was here for. 

How many others were there?  
  
Something in him nagged to go. The woman hadn’t given him any other indication; no meeting place, no time, no day. But he was restless, and he needed an excuse to get some fresh air. 

There wasn’t any better place than the library.

They had been shown the library in passing, of course, but he never had the chance to walk  _ inside.  _ Vornaya’s library had been massive; the light came from lanterns and cold fire, and within it, you felt lonely, abandoned, almost soulless. There could be other people there—scholars, emptily recording history—but they were so far away that you could scream and never be heard. 

All the life had been seeped out of it, like the glimmer gone from a gemstone. It was featureless, stony writing. 

Just another side effect of the war.

Salhalas’ though—it was different. Their library was the same size as Vornaya’s; that is, roughly the size of a small village, but inside it was warm and cozy, despite its size. It was intimate. The amount of volumes were stories tall, with one empty column in the middle. 

Jack looked up. It was a dome. He could see the stars slowly sailing above. 

He was made aware of the woman next to him when she grunted with the effort of holding several books, perched precariously on the step of a wooden ladder. Her skin was warm umber, and she stood tall, coming up to him at equal height and suffused in the milky, dreamlike light from the lanterns. 

“Hello. I’ve never seen you before,” she greeted warmly. When she turned to look at him, he saw her eyes were green, and as she smiled, she had just one dimple on her left cheek. “Do you need help with something?”

“No,” Jack said, watching her climb up the ladder to slot one of the books in between its cousins. “I just wanted a break. You know… Politicking. Diplomacy.” 

“Oh. We have books on that.”

“No, no. No book on that. I sit through it everyday.” Jack shook his head. 

The woman worked in silence, humming. Jack turned away, then paused.

“Actually… do you have a book on mythology?”

“Of all kinds,” she said, “our library proudly hosts a diverse collection of myths from all around the world. Primeria, Morvornaya, Salhalas, Sasket, Ibardoli, Kame—“

“Just… Salhalas. Please?”

“Ah!” She exclaimed, but it wasn’t towards him at all. A little girl who looked much like her was walking towards them, clad in green robes that trailed on the floor behind her. Her hair stuck out of her headwrap in unruly little curls. 

“Fourth story, row Thirty-seven to Forty-two, between shelves 125 and 726.” 

Jack was charmed in spite of himself. 

The girl looked at him. “I run this whole thing,” she said casually. “Orisa is my assistant. She’s doing well, but she still has a lot to learn. It’s hard carrying all those books when you’re small.” 

She dropped a bunch of them at his feet. Her skin was slightly shiny with a sheen of sweat. He had the idea that she wanted to prove herself by refusing to ask for help, despite needing it—he recognized it because it had been (or still is) a trait present in him.

Jack thought it was odd a child was left in charge of this whole operation, but he decided not to question it. 

Suddenly, the girl stuck out her bottom lip. “Hey. You’re a Vornayan official.” 

“Yes. A pleasure to meet you,” Jack said politely, and extended his hand. She stuck out her hand first and waited for him to take it instead. He did. 

“Excuse the hair. Humidity just makes it even worse. My name is Efi. I’m the librarian.” 

“Humidity. Hair. Yes.” The truth is, Jack had not talked to a child for a very long time, and the ones he did talk to were not nearly as normal as Efi, who was concerned with hair and ancient texts. “... You can call me Jack.” 

“Hi, Jack,” Efi said, and her cheeks plumped up in a bubbly smile. 

“... Do you need help with — all this?” 

“I’m glad you asked. No one asks, you know. Not that I want them to. But sometimes being short has its drawbacks.” 

Efi led him up the stairs, ranting all the while, trundling her small wagon of books, saying oh thank the gods someone finally asked, do you know how hard it is being twelve and in charge of one hundred something thousand books, really they just love to sit and watch me do it myself.

Jack was silent the entire time, and the woman Orisa just smiled—in an endeared way that implied this was normal—while she wandered off to complete whatever task needed tending to. Jack spent about an hour or so reaching up to places Efi couldn’t reach, grabbing the ladder for places too tall even to him—to which Efi grinned and said that she was glad she wasn’t alone in being too short for this place—and dumped books that were in the wrong place.

“Really,” Efi said, in such an exasperated way, “how do you get it so wrong! Kameni history is  _ three floors below, _ why would I put a book about history with books about alchemy!” 

“A travesty, indeed,” Jack remarked neutrally, and that seemed to please her. 

“Someone who gets it! Imagine if I walked into your library and trashed the place, then put nothing back.”

Jack said, “I would never allow them back in,” and she was again pleased, dipping back into her wagon to dig through the mismatched books. With a great effort, she heaved a thick one in both of her arms, looked at it, looked at Jack, then looked back at the cover again.

“...Say, isn’t this the book you needed?” Efi stood on her tiptoes and reached up to him. The book was solid red, and smelled like—well, the forgotten corner of the library. He dusted off the cover and revealed the gold lettering beneath. 

“Well…” Jack furrowed his eyebrows and stopped. “What was  _ this _ doing in… Alchemy?”

“It’s so annoying, people putting things where they don’t belong.” She frowned, and insistently added in a childishly petulant way, “You  _ did  _ ask for that, didn’t you?”

Jack opened his mouth, then realization struck him. “I did. Thank you.” 

Efi gave him a knowing look and smiled. “Enjoy.” Then she frowned. “But put it back in the right place or—“

“Yes, fourth story, row Thirty-seven to Forty-two, between shelves 125 and 726. I’ll find it, I’m sure.” 

“Good. Because it’s on a high shelf and I don’t wanna have to haul that ladder back up.” The grin returned again. “When you’re done with all that boring diplomacy stuff, come back! I respect the heir but he never gets it right. Says books put him to sleep! Can you believe it? I swear, if it doesn’t involve a ball or a sword, men are useless.” 

“Yes,” Jack agreed, even if he didn’t actually agree.

The book felt light in his arms—unnaturally light. He set it down, felt the sides of the book with his fingers, along the spine and the dips between pages. He opened it. 

Inside was a key.

Jack looked over in the direction Efi had gone and smiled. 

He had been told about this key. 

Before he arrived, he poured over the map of the palace grounds for days. Underneath the palace, he knew, was a network of tunnels accessible from multiple invisible doors all over the palace. These tunnels led to the catacombs. It was to protect the family in case of an attack. And even if an enemy  _ did  _ know about it, they would most likely die trying to raze their way through the catacombs themselves. It was a confusing network of deadends and intersections. 

It was confusing, unless you had an insider who happened to know all the routes by heart. Of course Jack didn’t know who it was, but he had admired them all the same; mapping out these routes must have taken them years. They might even be dead. But luckily, the key happened to be stored with a map, too, crinkled and yellowed at the edges, passing through a hundred generations of hands.

Still. He was nervous going in. He might very well be lost, and the whole mission lost, too.

He knew there was an entrance in the library. It was on the first floor, nestled in a forgotten corner, far from where he had come in. 

Jack felt the cool, damp air hit him as soon as he entered. He felt the unnatural smoothness of it beneath his feet, beaten from years of use. He glanced over his shoulder, paranoid, and grabbed a lantern off a nearby table. 

Darkness greeted him. 

Taking a deep breath, he shut the door behind him. 

He walked perilously, fearfully, sweeping light over the worn path. He had the feeling of being watched, like he was bearing witness to the memory of many, many lonely deaths. Darkness creeped in at the edge of his vision as his eyes adjusted, and he reached for the knife strapped to his thigh. There was life here. He knew it. Felt the vestiges of it: particles of memory, recreating the scene of a hundred final moments, as cold air, as breath on the back of his neck.

He clung to the memory of his mother telling him that most spirits were benevolent. That most of them were trapped in cages of memory, reliving glory and misery alike. 

_ Focus,  _ he told himself. He was looking for the woman with blond hair, but her memory was obfuscated by his own fear and the sweat creeping down his back, despite it being cooler in the catacombs. 

He decided to stare at the map in front of him. If he made a right here, and a left there…

People before him had left little landmarks on the walls. He dragged his hand along them, feeling them, and as he went deeper, the air became lighter, almost breezy. The path opened up, suddenly, and as he swept his light over it, the light revealed the details of an antechamber. Half-buried, by the looks of it. Jack climbed over a few mounds of dirt to really look at it, noticing the old writing on the walls, drawn with some kind of ink. Beneath the writing, he could see the faint designs that must have been carved into the wall, once upon a time. They were holy markings. 

The entire place felt like a cemetery. Like he was intruding on past lives. 

“An earthquake,” a voice behind him said softly. 

Jack gasped, swinging around. It was the woman. Her features were softened here, the light throwing deep shadows beneath her brow bones, reflecting a drying layer of sweat. She still smelled faintly of powder. 

“Do not sneak up on me again,” Jack warned. He didn’t even hear her coming.

“I’m sorry.” Although her voice was soft, it did not come from a place of weakness; it seemed like she, too, sensed the sacredness of this place, the sacrosanct air, the old bones. “I saw you coming from the light. Don’t worry. No one else comes down here.”  
  
His heart was still pounding, but he settled, turning back around to face the wall again. “An earthquake, you said? In a place like this?” 

The dancer shrugged. “They’re rare around here, but they can happen. We used to get them at home all the time.”

“What was this place?” Jack hovered the light over the door. Thankfully, it hadn’t been obstructed. 

“A temple,” she answered, walking in front of him toward the door. “The earthquake happened years ago. The emperor said the gods must have been angry with him, so they punished him. It killed all the people inside. People say the ground just… cracked in half, right under the temple.”  
  
“How many years ago?” Jack asked.  
  
“Not sure. I know it happened before I came here. Maybe about a few decades ago or so.”

The dancer gave a ghost of a smile and walked inside. Jack fell silent, and mused out loud, “Maybe it was because of the war.”  
  
“Maybe.” There was another torch on the floor, and she lit it using his flame. 

“Really nice place to hold a clandestine meeting,” Jack muttered. 

“Bodes well, doesn’t it,” the woman replied, with an acidic edge to her tone. “This is where we have always met, as long as I’ve been here.”

“So you’re a rebel, then. What’s your name?” he finally brought himself to ask.

“Angela,” the woman replied, “Ziegler.” 

Her movement was fluid, graceful, precariously balancing herself on one of the chairs, an echo of a childish habit. The flames from the torches ripened her features, casting them in an orange glow. Accentuated the long lashes, the steep arch of her eyebrows. The only sound was the sound of running water, drowning out their conversation, their words lost in the soft drain of it. 

He wanted to ask her more. Everything. Something in him ached for release, lurching at the idea of not being  _ alone.  _ How much  _ did  _ she know, exactly? Did she know he grew up here? That he could’ve wandered the avenues with his eyes closed? And how  _ would  _ she react, if she knew just how much of a fake he was?

The silence stretched comfortably between them, even though he burned with questions. 

He couldn’t help it, “Where are you from?”

She answered, simply, “Primeria.” 

The country of engineers and architects. He watched her as she finally settled, legs casually laid out to the side. Her eyes turned hollow, distant, staring in the direction of the tumult of the water. He heard of Primeria; like most things, he read about it in Vornaya—saw the drawings of their rigid, tall structures, the infinite sprawl of bridges, roads and aqueducts, conjured by an artist’s hand.

“You grew up there?”

“Yes. Before the war, things were mostly peaceful. My father was an architect. He designed our emperor’s new palace, with the help of some of his brothers.” 

He paused, sensing the rawness of her past tense. “Was?” 

“He was killed in the war. By Salhalan soldiers. Well, they said it was an accident,” she said, bitter. “Maybe it had been. He was killed running back to us from the palace. They had set it on fire. A piece of debris killed him. It fell on him.” 

He didn’t know what to do with this information. He cast his eyes to the fountain, watching the reflection of the lights on it. The lanterns twinkled on it like little flickers of light. He began, more as an afterthought, “But if the war had never happened, he never would have died.”

Her eyes flashed, but it wasn’t menacing. “Exactly.”

Jack paused, considered the weight of what he was about to say. “My father was killed in one of the raids on the mines. Right in front of me.” 

It was out in the air. He never told anyone about it. Only his mother knew—she had seen it—and now that someone knew, the horror of it was realized, the trauma manifesting itself in the silence of the square. Insidious, as silent as a phantom.

“I’ve seen the terrible things men are capable of,” Angela said, breaking him from his trance. “I resolved to myself, even though Salhalas annexed us, to help others. It was too late for my father and my mother—“ at Jack’s questioning glance, she added parenthetically— “she was murdered too, in the crossfire. It was too late for my father and my mother, but it wasn’t too late for the families who still had each other. I went into medicine. I went to the apothecary and begged her to train me.

“She appreciated the help. There were thousands of injured. Not all, of course, required her services, but she was busy day in and day out. She hardly rested. She was a sturdy, wise old woman. Salhalan or Primerian, it didn’t matter to her. It couldn’t matter to her. She was not allowed to have a say.” 

Jack said, “But you’re part of the resistance…”

She silenced him with a look again, as if he repeated something heinous. “Not by choice.” 

Angela continued, her eyes angry, now, “They took me back here. And she let me go. She let them take me because she thought it was my only chance at survival. They took me away from my home because they  _ could _ .” 

“And you agreed to join the resistance because . . .”

She straightened, as if preparing for a great speech. “You don’t  _ join _ the resistance, Jack. They find you, and they string you along, and you don’t have a choice.

“They promised me I could go home.” 

Jack took in a breath. There was grief, swelling inside his chest like an organ. He knew what that was like. Clinging to an empty promise, relying on it to carry you through your life. 

“When I refused, they killed my sister.”

His blood went cold. 

She continued, missing the look on his face, “I know they can’t now. Can’t bring me home, I mean. But I didn’t know then. My choice was illusory; it was never  _ there.”  _ Then her voice softened, turned desperate. “And now it’s too late to turn back. You can’t  _ go  _ back to your life after this. You know that, don’t you?”

Her voice was losing its composure. Jack wasn’t looking at her. He was clenching his fingers, forcing himself into that mould he had grown accustomed to for so long. For once, he  _ needed  _ it. Her life had been bargained and recycled, just like his own. He felt like he had bartered his life and lost. Yet it slipped away, as elusive like smoke, unable to protect him from the memory he had rejected for so long. 

That feeling wasn’t new. But Angela had bartered herself, on the premise that one day, she might be able to return home. And in doing so, she had cost her sister her life. An  _ innocent  _ life. 

Jack, young as he was, knew that there was no home to return to. He had lost everything, so they had nothing to use against him.

“I do,” he finally said, winded and shaky, “I was nine. But I knew what my choice was, and I knew that there was no turning back, even at that age.”  
  
“Jack,” she began, and it was the first time someone had used his name like that in  _ years,  _ and it made his heart clench. Tenderness had become alien, unrecognizable, that he didn’t know what to do with it when he was offered it. His name wasn’t mangled by formality, by malice, by disdain; it took on a new form.  _ Companionship. Concern.  _ And he hated it. Hated that she was comforting  _ him  _ when she had lost  _ everything _ . “Did you? Did you really know?”

Again, the silence stretched out between them. He had the idea that Angela was grieving a life that might have been, just like him, if things had turned out different. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t turn those fantasies over in his head. What life might have been like. If the alternative was  _ truly  _ better than this. 

“Jack… I have a question. How much—how much did they tell you?”

“What?” 

“Because—you know—the faction here… the rebels. You know they were put here by the empress O’Deorain, right? By the Vornayans?”

He felt dizzy, suddenly. “What? No.”

Angela nodded slowly. “That’s why you’re  _ here _ , Jack. That’s...war.” 

War was a world they were both intimately familiar with. They had both grown in this complicated bloody matrix, maybe molded into different shapes, but the same material nonetheless. 

Angela continued, not seeing his reaction, “And for what? Some money, some precious stone. The cost is generations of hatred, bloodshed, and revenge. It won’t get us anywhere.”

The word  _ revenge _ was like splashing cold water on him. “There’s a fine line between justice and revenge—“

“Fine is an understatement.” 

Jack simmered, if only slightly. “You wouldn’t want retribution for your parents’ deaths? If you could get it?”

“Retribution from  _ what,  _ Jack? Whom? A rock that had nothing to do with the war?”

“Against the people who  _ started _ the war—“ 

“And what would that accomplish? What then?” Angela asked desperately. She wasn’t asking  _ herself _ . She was asking  _ him.  _ “You kill him, yes? Maybe that’s not enough. You kill soldiers. You kill everyone. Then what? Is that your ultimate purpose in life? Is murder the end goal?” 

Jack was taken aback by her question. _Then what. _He never thought about it—life had always been a waiting game, life had always been the vacuum between moments, the stillness between one breath and the next. “... I never thought I’d get this far in the first place. I don’t think about what happens _after, _because I don’t even know if there even will be an _after._ I don’t even know if there will be a _tomorrow, _Angela.This could all end tonight, and it’d be for nothing anyway. Someone will take my place.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Would you feel better?”

“Yes, of course I would if he —“

“Look at your empire. They’re obsessed with revenge. Obsessed with revenge to the point of self-destruction.”

“Salhalas murdered the emperor and took what was theirs. Now the whole place is in ruins. You haven’t  _ seen  _ it. The sickness. The deadness.”

Angela stood up, bristling. “You’re going to lecture me on what I have and haven’t seen? I’ve seen worse than you can  _ imagine,  _ Jack. I’ve seen the flesh of arms and legs falling off from gangrene. I’ve operated on patients while they were awake, I’ve seen soldiers who will never speak again because they had their tongues cut off. And that’s not even the  _ tip _ of it all. Not even the  _ beginning _ .” 

Silence followed. Jack chewed on what she said for a long time, staring at his hands, wringing them. The sound of the water filled the silence in the meantime. Swallowing his pride was like swallowing a blade. Still, he looked her in the eyes, and his voice was genuine. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that.” 

Angela sat back down, notably winded from anger and a million other things he didn’t want to imagine. She suddenly looked exhausted. “I forgive you. I didn’t mean to yell at you—I just… I’ve seen so much, Jack.” She seemed to choke on her words, like she was about to reveal a secret. “No one has even bothered to say my name. Before you, no one said my name in years. No one  _ saw _ me. I was just—I was just an object for them to gawk at. I  _ am  _ an object to gawk at. I have to sit and look pretty, everyday, in front of the enemy. And it’s  _ exhausting. _ ”  
  
Angela watched the torchlight, and her expression folded in on itself. He watched the transition from grief to resolve, and for a moment, his face sagged with his own grief. He suddenly felt like he had said too much, and her comfort felt invasive. It cornered him, suffocated him. The light blurred, fused together, and when he put the back of his hand to his eyes, he realized he was crying. 

Her shoulders started to shake too. She pushed it back, wiping her eyes again and again. He understood that feeling, at least—being nameless. Being invisible. As the seconds passed, they both composed themselves. Jack stood up and sat on the bench beside her. 

“Well, Angela…” he began, and he felt almost painfully awkward, since comforting people was not one of his stronger qualities. (He was a sword, not a bandage. He did the wounding.) “I have only known you for a short bit, but… not many people have shown me kindness. You are … a very strong, compassionate person.” 

His awkwardness  _ must  _ have been palpable, but his intentions were clear. Angela looked like she wanted to laugh, and when she smiled, there was no mockery— “I’m not—laughing because you’re funny. I’m… overwhelmed, that’s all.” 

In spite of himself, Jack smiled. Just a little. “I get it. And you can laugh. I’m not here because I’m good at making people feel better. I usually—um—make people not feel anything at all.” 

This time, Angela actually laughed. He didn’t know why, because he wasn’t making a joke. 

They fell into a silence that was actually companionable. Angela looked to the wall, caved in and decorated with writing that had long since been eroded by water and earth.

“I always wanted to see the ocean, but… not like this.”

“No?”

“I mean. I saw it when I was a child. Sometimes my father would take us to a house on the coast. I don’t remember it much… I was very young. I remember the feeling of sand beneath my feet. My father shielding me from the birds, with very sharp beaks, who would try to steal my food. And I remember it being very warm—but pleasantly warm. Not like it is now.” She forced out a laugh, peeling her hair from her wet forehead. It quickly died, and she added, somewhat morosely, “So I always wanted to go back. Just to remember him. And it’s teasing me, in a way, because it’s right there… but I will never be able to touch it.” 

Angela closed her eyes. 

Jack had nothing to say. Not really. “I’m sorry.” 

It was the wrong thing to say, or, at least, it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “You should go.”

He understood. 

They both stood up. Unbeknownst to her, her words dragged him down like two great weights. He felt like he was underwater. He hardly remembered the way to get back to the upper levels of the palace. She took the lead, and he fell into step beside her. Occasionally, he glanced out from little holes in the walls, seeing the orange sprawl of the city, its sounds muted by the roar of the ocean. Sometimes he tried to search the horizon for the same spire he had climbed as a child as if it held an answer to all his racing questions, a thousand lifetimes ago, but it was too small.   
  
Her face was still smooth with youth, but the haunted look had returned to it again; it rendered her fierceness more ghostly, like it was a relic of a past life. She just looked  _ older.  _

He doubted he looked much better. 

“Follow this path,” Angela said to him as they approached it, and her voice still held a sliver of the tenderness she had shown earlier, “and it should take you to the bottom of the palace, from where we came. Do you remember how to get back? From the library?” 

He nodded, turning to go. 

“Someone will be waiting for you. And Jack. . .” Angela began. He glanced at her. Her eyes were firm, aflame, boring into his. “Do what you need to do. But don’t hurt more than you have to. It’s not in you.” 


End file.
